


Heartbreaker

by TiggityTwa



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Breathplay, Codependency, Drunken Flirting, Dubious Consent, Emotional Confusion, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Gun Violence, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Inappropriate Behavior, Marius is pure, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Rough Oral Sex, Sexual Abuse, Shuhrat doesn't know how to relationship, Side Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Relationships, drinking on the job, learning how to love, like seriously, shift in priorities, then sudden escalation, unsafe work behavior
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:41:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23368615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiggityTwa/pseuds/TiggityTwa
Summary: Team Rainbow is split up in order to deal with a wide-spread and unknown threat. During this operation an unlikely bond is made and the result is even more chaotic than anybody could've guessed.
Relationships: Elias "Blitz" Kötz/Monika "IQ" Weiss, Shuhrat "Fuze" Kessikbayev/Marius "Jäger" Streicher
Comments: 21
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First work in this fandom and it's majorly self-indulgent. Please enjoy!  
> Inconsistent updates.

Prologue

I’ve called you here today because we face uncertainty in a time where predictability is crucial. Our intelligence has confirmed a new threat that expanses the entirety of Northeastern France along the western border of Germany. Their bases and numbers remain unknown and we have no idea what level of destruction they’re capable of. I’ve chosen to split Team Rainbow into separate factions located across the identified hot zones and work alongside the GIGN and GSG9 units. I’ll remain in charge of the overall operation but I’m assigning a leading operator to each faction and I expect you to act accordingly to their demands. This mission could last weeks or it could last months as we gather further information on the imposing threat. Be prepared with a week’s worth of clothes, hygiene products, and any work-appropriate personal items. Everything else will be provided on-site for you. You’re to remain on-call for the entirety of your deployment and I expect you to maintain an exemplary level of both physical and mental fitness. This is a difficult time for all of us but nothing we haven’t seen before. Stay positive and resilient, we’re counting on you.

Chapter One

He had never been one for large social gatherings. The rumble of people talking all at once, several conversations intermingling to create one large blanket of noise - too difficult for the trained ear to focus on just one string of words at a time. It’s suffocating. He was one of the last people to show up, fashionably late, muttering a passing “hello” to those who greeted him but didn’t really pay any attention to which body came with which voice. He gripped his suitcase stubbornly, eyes shifting around the room, analyzing each wooden door as if one would open up and show him to the room he’ll be sleeping in for an unforeseeable amount of time. That’s when one familiar voice cut through the static, 

“Rooms are to your right, Shuhrat.” Timur came to him from the side and patted his shoulder warmly. He stared at him for a moment expectantly, like waiting for a dog to bark, but only got the stink eye in return. “Don’t look so unhappy, друг, we’re only risking our lives for the safety of a bunch of Frenchmen.” That actually made Shuhrat smirk , his features softening as he shrugged the hand off his shoulder. Timur led him to the private quarters, which turned out to be a wide hallway with a line of doors on each side. They’re all numbered 1 through 14 and look painfully similar, the numbering clearly a necessity. 

“Aleksandr is in number five, I got six and Maxim snuck his way into fourteen when we weren’t looking so the room next to his is all yours.” Timur extends his hand towards lucky number 13.

“What about seven?” Shuhrat points out, earning a fond chuckle from the man next to him who begins ambling toward the end of the hall.

“You’d think seven would be available but it’s actually…” Timur pauses dramatically, pulling the door open with brutal slowness to reveal a room cast in darkness, filled with shadows that Shuhrat tries to make out with a squint. He watches the sniper’s steady hand disappear behind the wall and a light flickers on inside. “Just a broom closet.” With the room illuminated by joyless white light, Shuhrat can confirm that it is, in fact, just a broom closet; shelves filled with cleaning products and exactly what you’d expect. He side-eyes Timur, entirely unamused. 

The second Shuhrat sets down his suitcase he’s made fully aware of just how small this base is compared to what he’s used to. His room has about as much wiggle room as the tanks back at the Alibino firing range. It was almost claustrophobic as there were no windows either, at least not in his room. He supposes it makes sense that they not draw any extra attention to themselves, save for the giant helipad East of the building. The base is secluded, several miles North of Strasbourg, France and he’d be lying if he said the lush green fields weren’t a sight for tired eyes. He’s slow to unpack his things, taking the time to breathe since he knows this kind of privacy will be scarce after today. Tossing his luggage onto the small double size bed, he’s thankful that no dust came wafting up from the sheets. Not that he expects Rainbow to let them sleep in anything less than pristine conditions, but this GIGN base looks old and Shuhrat can tell based on the layout alone that this building might’ve been some kind of hospital or sick ward initially. He pulls out his lounge clothes and stores them in the small, wooden wardrobe provided for him. It’s actually the only other piece of furniture in this room. He wonders for a moment if everyone’s quarters are this sparse or if Rainbow is still in a punishing mood after his last mission. He figures they wouldn’t be so petty, given that none of the rooms were assigned. Still, the thought floated around in his head as he filled drawers with plenty of sweatpants. His uniform, flexarmor, boots and headgear he kept neatly on top of the wardrobe for quick access. All weapons and heavy gear will be shipped tomorrow, including his tools and blueprints that have been in progress for months now. It’s truly a blessing that Rainbow encourages skill building in any form during their downtime, a blessing that Shuhrat won’t be taking for granted for however long he’s here. It was then he heard a knock at the door and Maxim’s recognizably weary voice, “Meeting with the coordinator.”

The meeting was just a typical briefing for what to expect being stationed on-call; daily tasks, what to do, what not to do, all while receiving a walk-through tour of the facility. From the front lounge there was access to the mess hall and an indoor gym. The view from the gym was just short of breathtaking. The sudden shift from stale, aged drywall to a swirling burnt orange and pink sky pulled gasps from some of the other operators. The sun was setting behind rolling hills, framed perfectly within a giant window that damn near took up the entire West-facing wall. There were several comments about how the gym was going to be crowded around this time every day. Timur in particular, seems the most impressed. For Shuhrat, however, it was an unwelcome reminder of exactly what he was fighting to protect - and the stakes if he failed. The rest of the tour was bland in comparison; location of the men and women bathrooms, showers included, conference room, kitchen and storage, and a very home-style laundry room. To call it a ‘room’ was generous, it was more shoved in the corner of the hallway between the kitchen and men’s bathroom. The coordinator explained that the kitchen has limited access and food will be prepared for them three times daily, not dissimilar to what he was used to in Spetsnaz. Shuhrat was only genuinely interested near the end of the tour when they were led outside to a seperate building that was humbly called a ‘Training Arena’. The inside seemed huge, with a two-story high ceiling and several dozens of stadium-bright lights beaming down on them. Had they not just been outside he’d think it was still daytime. It was empty, a concrete dome and one of the American operators hooted loudly but there came no echo.

“Now I know this doesn’t look like much right now but after we get all our equipment set up this arena will be your playground. Operator ‘Montagne’ will be in charge of the training sessions, any further questions about the program will be brought up to him as a licensed instructor.” Shuhrat, along with several others, look over to Gilles Toure who uniformly nodded his head at the commissioner. Next to him, Emmanuella pats his back encouragingly. The briefing ended shortly after and all operators returned to the lounge to get settled.

Aleksandr convinced him to stick around while the Americans started up a game of poker, and by ‘convinced’ he means Aleksandr is holding him hostage in a web of polite kindness that Shuhrat can’t see a way out of without coming off as an asshole. 

“My little girl just lost her first tooth! Anastasia sent me this just an hour ago,” he taps through his phone and pulls up a picture of a woman crouching next to a sweet looking kid that, admittedly, does look a lot like him. All smiles and one of her top front teeth missing, like a proud rough-and-tumble hockey player. 

“On the left is my sister, she said Dimitri, my eldest, tied a string to it and pop! Out that sucker came!” Aleksandr cackles, seemingly overjoyed by such a mundane occurrence. The conversation is entirely one-sided as Shuhrat doesn’t even need to respond to get the large Russian to gush more about his family, sifting through photos to show out of an album of hundreds. He just nods occasionally, dulling his senses to make the time pass quicker until this overly exuberant dad tires himself out. Looking around the room, he tries to match faces to names. Most of them he refers to by their operator name, like IQ, who sits on one of the outer edges of the sectional sofa across the room, quietly going through her phone. Shuhrat thinks she enjoys the closeness of other people more than actually talking to them. Next to her are Twitch and Montagne, though Twitch insists he call her by her actual name, Emmanuella. For his Russian tongue this is not an easy name for him to pronounce, same goes for a few others so she’ll respond to anything that comes close. To his right there’s a table set up with six chairs and an ass in each seat. Pulse and Thermite, the only two SWAT members in the building always come prepared for a friendly competition of some sort. Pulse, or Jack, is another who insists on using his real name outside of work. Thermite doesn’t seem to care one way or the other. Around the table are Bandit, Timur, Maxim, Jager and Blitz, or as he prefers Elias, who’s content on watching instead of playing. He walks around getting a look at everybody’s cards and whispering advice, some of which earns him a half-hearted elbow to the gut by Bandit. It only gets Elias to laugh harder, knowing fully well who has the best hand. Regardless of what little effort Shuhrat puts in to remember the names outside of Spetsnaz, they all call him by his real name. 

“Do you have any family?” The question reels him back into his body and he’s not sure he heard that right, eyes returning to the man next to him.

“What?” If Aleksandr is at all disconcerted by his colleague’s lack of attention, he doesn’t show it and repeats the question. 

“Got anybody waiting at home for you?” The large man looks at him with expectant eyes and if it weren’t for his genuine interest Shuhrat would’ve gotten up and left. 

“No.” He replies dryly. 

This doesn’t seem to satisfy Aleksandr and he pries further, “You mean, no sweetheart? No parents? Even you have parents, kid, or you wouldn’t be sitting here!” His tone is jovial but Shuhrat can’t think of any person who he looks forward to seeing, not even his parents. He’s fairly certain they don’t even expect him to come home. 

“No one.” He reaffirms, looking back into hazel eyes, unwavering. Silence hangs frozen in the air for a moment until it’s broken.

“Hey, Shuhrat, I’m out and they need another player, go keep Timur company,” Maxim inserts himself on the couch, pushing against Shuhrat to encourage him to get up and try to have a little fun for once. Accepting any reason to leave the topic of family, he gets up without objection, half tempted to turn on his heels and come up with an excuse to go to bed early. Then he spots Timur, patting the chair next to him and he reluctantly decides a distraction might be good for him. 

They explain the game to him, though he’s played before a refresher isn’t unwelcome. Jack shuffles the cards with intended flair and they actually brought chips to play with. He shouldn’t be surprised. 

“Tonight we’re playing for fun,” Jack deals out the cards and sets up the center cards face down, “and bragging rights.” He snickered to himself confidently. 

“He only wins because he counts cards,” Thermite half-whispers next to him, covering his mouth in mock secrecy. Jack defends himself adamantly in the background while Shuhrat checks his hand. Two Aces. He glances at Timur, trying to gauge how good his cards might be by his expression but he’s stone-faced, much like everybody else around the table, except for Bandit who’s grinning ear-to-ear. He bets high immediately and Thermite and Timur are gone before the Flop.

Jack hums thoughtfully before calling, “I’m calling your bluff, Dom, you ain’t got shit.” He turns over the Flop revealing a Queen of Hearts, a 4 of Clubs and an Ace of Diamonds. Shuhrat almost shot up his eyebrows at the sight of that Ace, that’s three-of-a-kind. Bandit bets again but this time Jack raises, hoping to scare him out of his supposed bluff. It works. 

“And that’s how you make a paper man crumble,” Jack laughs lightheartedly, flipping over a 9 of Hearts. 

“And that’s how you reveal a narcissist,” Bandit counters and Thermite howls. The only players still in are Jack, Shuhrat and Jager, who hasn’t said anything since they started but has been making a constant tapping noise with his thumb against the table. King of Hearts. Shuhrat thinks it time to strike and bets a large amount on his three Aces. Jager throws him a curve-ball, going all-in and the Russian looks to his friend for guidance. He half wishes Elias were still here to give him insight on the other German’s hand but he left at some point to go talk with IQ.

While Jack is still deciding, staring down Jager, Timur whispers, “If you’re confident go for it.” 

Jack then folds, “Too rich for my blood, Marius,” putting up his hands in surrender at the balls on this German. It’s down to the two of them and they lock eyes competitively, sizing each other up. Shuhrat calls, going all-in and now to back it up. He throws his hand right-side up and Timur lightly punches his arm, thinking that should be enough to win. Then Jager throws up a Flush of Hearts, releasing a breath that he might’ve been holding the whole game. Both Spetsnaz agents slump in their chairs, disappointed that Russia didn’t take home the gold today. Thermite pats Jager on the back, singing his praises for giving Jack a taste of failure for once. 

“You were so quiet I never thought I’d see the day!” Thermite laughs boisterously, shaking the smaller German in his seat. 

“He thinks the more he talks, the easier it is for Jack to get read on him,” Bandit jokes, sending a pointed look at the American agent in question, “Isn’t it cheating to play sadistic mind games in a simple game of poker?” He accuses, obviously vexed with not being able to lie his way to victory. 

Jack never stops smiling, “Emma is probably better at it than I am, to call it ‘sadistic’ is an insult to her.” 

“Don’t act humble, it doesn’t suit you.” Bandit sneers. The energy within this group is relaxing but Shuhrat still feels out of place among them, even with Timur by his side. 

“All is fair in love and war, Dom,” Jager teases, letting the victory get to his head a little. It’s almost endearing how excitable he is. He catches his gaze and smiles awkwardly, Shuhrat ignores it. They all talk for a while, Shuhrat participates in the conversation occasionally when prompted by Timur, and it’s not an unenjoyable experience though rather unfamiliar. Discomfort still breathes down the back of his neck and he cuts the night short, heading back to the barracks after waving himself off. 

Upon reentry, his room is much more inviting this time around. Probably because it offers an escape and a closed door speaks a silent ‘leave me alone’ to those outside of it. Once they start training, working together, he’ll be more at ease. He far prefers professional relationships over that feeling of insincere familiarity, this isn’t some kind of camping trip this is a job. He pulls out his phone and mindlessly rereads the mission briefing from Six, toeing off his shoes and grabbing a pair of sweatpants from the old wardrobe. They know so little about these so-called terrorists. If threats were made then why would they do it anonymously if they want to be a feared, organised group? It almost feels like a trap. So spaced out within a whole country, it’s not even guaranteed that this is all one organisation but could be multiple competing over the same cut of beef. No thought is more terrifying than various different groups, with no regard for human life, fighting for dominance. If this isn’t done right, the result could be devastating not just for France or Germany but the whole world. Fear is one of the most powerful influencers. Shuhrat lets out a strangled groan, tossing his phone onto the bed. As he’s changing, his open suitcase reminds him he should clean up before bed, at the very least brush his teeth since he did drink on the plane. Not interested in having to go back out into the lobby so shortly after excusing himself he opts for waiting an hour or so before heading to the restroom. Everyone has moved on by the time he steps out of his seclusion, the poker table abandoned with cards and chips strewn about. He roams out to the hall connected to the gym and notices a couple people using the treadmills. The lights are off and they’re silhouetted by moonlight alone; a man and a woman, he’s not sure who but he feels like he’s intruding even if they haven’t noticed him yet. Moving on. Entering the men’s bathroom he’s greeted with the back-end of someone bent over one of the two sinks and fresh steam in the air. With not much of a choice, he sidles up to the conjoined counter and he sees it’s Jager who straightens himself almost immediately, humming past the toothbrush in his mouth. 

“Shuhrat,” he slurred, obviously in the middle of watching something on his phone since the audio is still playing. “Perfekt! This is something that might interest you,” he restarts the video and turns up his phone before setting it down against the mirror. It’s a documentary about micro solar-panels and how scientists are prototyping remote-controlled machinery that run off solar power alone and how they’ve extended their charge life. They brush their teeth in silence and Shuhrat was more so watching it because it was there and not particularly because he was interested, but he finds himself getting involved, lingering several minutes after he’d finished brushing. Though he finds no use for any of it himself, Jager looks like he’s taking mental notes and he can almost hear the gears turning in his head over how he could apply this information into future projects. Shuhrat taps the phone screen to see how much is left and decides being barely past the halfway point means it’s time to leave, rinsing his face while he presumes Jager is spitting finally. He pats his face dry before turning to leave without breathing a word.

“I’ll send you the rest,” Jager calls behind him right before the door cuts him off. 

Back in his quarters when he’s laying in bed, he does indeed receive a message with a video attachment from sender ‘Marius Streicher’. He knows for a fact that Timur is the one giving his personal number to people - and messing with his contacts, seeing as he rarely talks to anyone outside of Spetsnaz and has never seen a reason to beyond work. He still receives messages from the other operatives but rarely does he reply unless a response is warranted. Most of the messages are from Aleksandr wanting to be involved in his personal life and sending updates on his sister and kids, which he might be getting less of after today. He’s gotten numerous messages from Jager before, whether it’s information he finds intriguing or reminding him of upcoming birthdays - Rook’s was just last week. He listens when people talk and holds onto information with barbs and hooks and Shuhrat has to admit, he’s always found an interest in what he has to say about machinery - how confident he is in this one aspect of himself. By the time the video ends it’s past midnight and he isn’t even tired.


	2. Chapter 2

The night ends short to make way for an early morning. Numerous alarms reverberate through thin walls and Marius is having none of it, wrapping the pillow around his head mulishly. He curses his past self thinking it was a good idea to stay up wandering down yet another rabbit hole of documentaries. Peace returns momentarily but it’s short-lived as sharp thuds replace the sound of chimes. 

“Faule Knochen!” The voice beyond the door sounded decidedly stern and it reminded him so much of his uncle in that moment. 

“Was,” he grumbles beneath the pillow. What’s an extra ten minutes? Mornings were always the hardest for him and no amount of training could ever change that part of himself. Luckily, he had some guardian angels watching over him - mainly his job. 

“You don’t want the warden to report a ‘Lazy German Engineer’ to Six, do you?” His words hold no weight over Marius, who seems to think of himself as irreplaceable. How close he is to the truth is unnerving. There’s no doubt he’s seen as a remarkable asset, his ADS alone has dropped the overall in-force casualty rate by the dozens in the short span of a year. “Breakfast will be picked clean if you don’t get up now.” 

That convinces him. Spending barely enough time to don a pair of jeans, he's up and out with Elias to greet him in the hall.

“Morning,” Elias smiles warmly, not at all bothered by his teammate’s morning indolence. He expects it at this point. 

“Morning, Elias,” Marius replies in a thankful tone. After the initial point of vexation, he always deeply appreciates any help he receives even if in some cases it makes him feel like a child. It’s just something he needs to work on. “No more late nights… I mean it this time.” He’s being serious but the larger man laughs anyway, wrapping a strong arm around his shoulders as they make their way to the mess hall. 

Breakfast is set up buffet-style with hot plates lined up and it’s quite reminiscent of when he was in university. The food looks better though: Scrambled eggs, biscuits, muffins, assorted fruits, all kinds of breakfast meats - a lavish display of Rainbow’s wealth and of the cook’s skills. The cook, a Barcelonian man who goes by Perez, greets everyone with a smile and tries to learn all their names. Marius spends a good while asking him about his hometown and his job, all while nursing a glass of orange juice that Perez said he made just this morning. He doesn’t sleep at the base but says the thirty-minute drive is worth it to see so many people enjoy his food - the paycheck isn’t bad either. He asks Marius what his favorite meal is and it takes a minute for him to come up with Rollbraten, something he sought out whenever he came back to Europe. Deciding he should actually get some food in him, he dressed a plate and Perez waved him off. Scanning the room he saw there were four decently large tables, stainless steel and four seats for each one. The one closest to him was filled up by Gilles, Elias, Monica and Emmanuella. The next, and certainly the loudest, was made up of Jack, Aleksandr, Jordan and Dominic, all laughing at something Dom said which he’s probably heard before. The third table held the remaining members of Spetsnaz, leaving the fourth completely vacant. Marius doesn’t like intruding without an invitation so sitting alone should be fine, he can go over some notes while he eats.

He doesn’t get halfway through his meal before Timur calls him over. Marius wishes he had bit the bullet earlier and asked. Traipsing over now felt particularly embarrassing since it feels like an obligation rather than a choice. After sitting down though, he feels much more at ease; listening to the three go back and forth about this and that while he eats. He likes having this time to witness the other operators and how they talk to each other - their mutual interests, their closeness or lack thereof. He wants to learn more about them and for them to learn more about each other - to know each other’s strengths and weaknesses, where they could use some support. He wonders if Shuhrat is always this quiet, even amongst friends. Luckily, he doesn’t have to ask.

“What’s the matter, Shuhrat?” Maxim questions the man across from him with interest, “Did блонди shut you up?” Marius freezes mid-bite, looking between the two sheepishly, like he’d done something wrong just by being there. Shuhrat’s eyes darken, looking through his interrogator as if he were a ghost. 

“No,” he responds flatly and Maxim only grins wider. It’s obvious he likes teasing his teammate but it feels cruel in a way, like he really wants to see him get mad and do something about it. Marius swallows and blows out a breath of air, rubbing newborn tension from his neck. 

“Did you end up finishing that video I sent?” Marius combated the awkwardness to the best of his ability, ignoring whatever Maxim’s face might be doing. Shuhrat remains silent and Marius fears he’ll be snubbed but the Uzbek nods. 

“It was interesting,” and that’s the most he’s heard him say since they’ve been here. It’s an almost giddy feeling, getting him to speak and Marius doesn’t waste an opportunity. 

“I wonder what they’ll come up with next. Have you asked Emmanuella what she’s been working on?” The question was rhetorical given Shuhrat’s tight-lipped reputation, but Timur chimes in at this so he continues. He relays all of what Emmanuella taught him about her work in artificial intelligence, including the possibility of creating ‘man-made life’ as she describes it. Her main mission is to teach robots empathy which is a curious thought when some humans have yet to learn such a thing. He talks to Shuhrat the whole time, engaging him in hopes he’ll get to hear him talk more, maybe bring down his defenses if even a little bit. 

“What are you working on?” Shuhrat inquires, interrupting his rant about the juxtaposition of an artificial program comprehending human emotions. To say he’s surprised would be an understatement, he’s overjoyed. The topic shift is sudden but Marius takes it in stride.

“I’m developing a prototype for an ADS upgrade; nothing nearly as groundbreaking as AI empaths but I think even the slightest improvements can make a big difference,” he feels reinvigorated just talking about his projects and it makes up for the social stumble from earlier. It’s like a light illuminates him now instead of feeling cast aside in shadow and Shuhrat is looking right at him, attentively listening. In the back of his mind he’s vaguely aware of the other two staring but doesn’t pay any mind to it, blabbering on in between mouthfuls until his plate is clean. He offers to show his blueprints later and earns a look that he’ll take as a ‘yes’.

At about 08:00, it would seem Marius isn’t the only early runner on base - go figure. The gym is brimming with life soon after he starts his morning routine, which mostly consists of cardio and not much else. For him, keeping a nimble body and lean muscle fits best, he’s not a heavy lifter and he doesn’t want to be. Him and Elias like to help push each other, he’ll test the other man’s endurance and Elias will walk him through more full-body workouts. More often, however, Elias will work with Montagne. They’ve grown closer recently and Marius believes they’re good for each other, especially when it comes to work; They’re both strong in mind and body and they can challenge each other to grow during operations, often making up for the other’s shortcomings. As he works up a sweat he thinks the view in here really is a gift. The treadmills face out, making him feel like he’s jogging through the grass with the wind cooling his face. He’s not though. He doesn’t like being cooped up like this. They’re supposed to keep outside time to a minimum - it protects them, keeps them hidden, and if their whereabouts were known it could compromise the mission and they could end up doing more harm than good. It’s exhausting to think about but the energy moving his body faster and the burn in his lungs does a great job of distracting him. After some time he decides to take a break, grabbing a water bottle from a mini-fridge kept along the East wall. There’s a larger fridge that looks like a hollowed out vending machine filled with snacks like nutrient bars, bags of dried fruits and chips - the healthy kind. It’s a nice facility up until the rooms, they feel like what he would imagine a prison cell is like; empty, dark and brings with it a sense of loneliness. It’s not lonely now though, he offered to spot Elias on the bench and it gives him a chance to hear the camaraderie between the others. Monica and Jack are goading each other, trying to outdo the other on the treadmills and it looks like they might end up hurting themselves if they go much faster. It’s fun to listen to and Marius is positive he heard her say she could do this for days and honestly, he believes it. Elias grunts beneath him reminding him of the task at hand. He’ll always stop him after about ten minutes, knowing he’s prone to exceeding his limits, as he’s done so before. That was a fun day. The poor guy could barely move his arms, making him so uncharacteristically helpless. He refused to take the day off and ended up making it worse. It goes to show that the people who are most used to taking care of others often forget to take care of themselves. Marius tosses Elias a water bottle right when the coordinator walks in.

“Good news,” he declares to the room, “Equipment’s just arrived and it’s set up in the training arena.” As the coordinator speaks, everyone winds down to listen, he can hear Jack and Monica panting particularly loudly and it makes Marius snort. “The arena is ready to use and I suggest training at least once a day before or after noon. Everything you need is there and I leave the planning and setup for you all to go over amongst yourselves. Now, I’ve been called away for something important so I’ll check in periodically over the next week. Until then, I put my trust in you.” He waves himself off and is out the room in a hurry. It’s really bizarre for a base to be left without supervision and he’s not the only one who thinks so. It’s distressing to wonder what could be so important yet still be kept secret from them.

They’re all allowed one box. Certain personal belongings aren’t allowed on international airlines but Rainbow is very accommodating, sending requested items left in a lab at an alternate agency or on an operator’s home base. Aside from the weapons, ammunition and specially customized gadgets and gear, there’s a box for every operator with their name on it. It’s like Erste Feiertag, Dominic and Emmanuella handing packages around in a circle. Once everyone has been taken care of, Gilles makes an announcement.

“Starting today, at 1400 hours, we’ll be doing team training exercises. Every day at the same time we’ll meet here, the facility can be used freely after 1600 hours but not past 2300 hours.” Fatigue hits Marius all at once from getting scarcely five hours of sleep last night, not to mention he didn’t rest for a second on the plane. Always getting caught up in work whether it’s doing cargo loads of research or exchanging schematics with BPOL. He also might’ve gotten sucked up in one or two rom-coms that played in the background - he can’t help himself. Gilles talks for a while and he feels terrible that he’s not heard any of it, but for now he’ll look forward to dipping his hands back into his passion. He wonders what Emmanuella brought with her and if she has anything new to share, maybe Shuhrat will be in a sharing mood too.

Noon rolls around and lunch is served. Simple and light is how Perez describes it, offering an assortment of different sandwiches and lettuce wraps. He promises that dinner will always be the best meal of the day and will try to prepare something everyone can enjoy. This time around their conversation is kept short, Marius only hopes eating will reignite a fire under him. He doesn’t pussyfoot around this time, plopping down into the fourth seat next to Shuhrat. He doesn’t seem to mind but even if he did Marius wouldn’t notice, too engrossed in his ham and spinach sandwich. Timur chuckles but he’s not sure if it’s because of him or something Maxim said.

“Didn’t sleep well, Marius?” Timur teases fondly, sounding pleased with having him around.

“Something like that…” he mutters, shoving the sandwich in his pie hole and feeling rather ashamed of his own tendency to dawdle. He hated to waste precious time by sleeping but once he’s out he’s not coming back for a while. Maybe that’s why he’s so hesitant to start early. On the other hand, if he got a proper rest it would probably put an end to his problems. Monica is very similar; she can’t stand the thought of letting a day go to waste and will find something, anything, that she can improve on. Last night he heard her enter her room at 3:00 and it’s actually what convinced him to put the phone down, since he’d want the same of her. A passing glance shows that she runs much better on lack of sleep than he does. She’s more accustomed to it - and the caffeine helps. The mini-fridge is full of energy drinks and Marius is damn sure it’ll be empty within the week thanks to her. 

“Better not make a habit of it,” Maxim grumbles, sipping from a cup of coffee. Marius didn’t know Perez was out here making coffee, he might need some to get through training later. He can feel himself slowing down, barely chewing at this point, staring off into nothingness. Okay yeah, coffee. 

Marius stands as still as possible, not even breathing while he strains to hear any slight noises from under his helmet. His heart beats in his ears and it’s not doing him any favors as he readies his P12 handgun toward the open doorway. Behind him is a person of interest that he has sworn to protect, and in this case said person is a 150 lb sandbag slumped in the corner. He might’ve had too much coffee earlier, the caffeine coursing through him made him jittery, hands shaking ever so slightly. How poetically ironic that his saving grace may also be his downfall. Dominic had run off to the hall and Aleksandr followed after him, leaving Marius alone to protect the asset. Elias and Maxim were gunned down early on and he had no idea where Jack went, no comms among them. He hears footfalls from below followed by gunfire - nonlethal ammo of course but the powder pellets still pack a mean punch and it can hurt like hell if it hits the right spot. The shooting stops and there’s some yelling that follows until everything goes silent. He’s torn between checking the stairwell or staying put and he goes with the latter, still having no idea where his team is. Gilles wanted to try an exercise where communication would be limited but Marius wasn’t expecting everyone to think no plan was a good plan. 

“Gottverdammt,” he mutters to himself, peeking out the doorway and seeing no sign of Dominic or Aleksander. It’s extremely frustrating, even if the scenario is fake it’s based on real situations that are life or death in most cases and he knows that a lot of them aren’t taking this seriously. It feels like a game - an opportunity to have fun or even show off to their peers, trying to outshine each other. Stupid competitive bastards. Luckily the attacking team is left in the dark, not knowing where the asset is. They’re not using any equipment other than handguns - no gadgets, no comms, just the uniforms on their back and a developed instinct. Marius doesn’t like holding up a room without his ADS primed, it makes him feel vulnerable even if there are no projectiles to worry about. Shuffling echoes from the hall and Marius practically slams himself against the wall. Shots are fired again and Dominic shouts from another room, spewing obscenities at who he can only presume is Monica, given that he calls them a ‘stupid blonde’ followed up with a feminine laugh. It makes him smile, forgetting for a moment that he’s supposed to pay attention to the door, when someone barges in. It scares the shit out of him and he has to hold back a yelp. Thank God they check the other side of the room first, giving Marius an opening to shoot them in the back of the head. The man doubles over, grabbing the back of his helmet and calling out, 

“Jesus Christ!” It’s Jordan. Marius feels guilty about hurting the poor guy but this loudmouth is sounding an alarm. Marius slaps a gloved hand over his mouth to muffle his howling and quickly pulls him across the room, sitting him down next to the sandbag. Marius places his index finger against his mask, the universal gesture for ‘shut the hell up’, and moves back into position by the door. It’s impossibly quiet as Marius stands ready, trembling fingers gripping the firearm. The muzzle of a pistol enters the doorway. No sound is made as it aims around the room and Marius waits until its wielder steps in to make his move. He knocks his handgun onto the other, hearing it clatter to the ground he aims center-mass and-- his gun is pushed down, making him shoot the floor. Dust sprayed their boots and he has no time to think before a leg kicks the side of his head then wraps around his neck. He’s forced to twist awkwardly, his face shoved against ass and his neck in a choke hold at the mercy of strong thighs. He desperately holds onto his gun while the infiltrator tries to wrangle it from him and there’s no easy way out of this so he keeps firing until he knows his cartridge is empty. With the firearm rendered useless, he lets go. While catching his breath he looks up to see a woman wearing a dark mask, vexation in her eyes.

“Hi, Emma,” Marius chokes out. It’s getting significantly harder to breath, Emmanuella might actually be trying to knock him out. Here he was, worried that everyone wasn’t taking training seriously.

“Hey,” she breathes, simpering before tightening her hold. On second thought, she might be trying to kill him. Marius throws himself into her, body slamming her against the door frame which gives him the leverage he needs to squirm free. He lunges for the loaded gun but she jumps on his back, tackling him to the ground. They wrestled for a minute until Marius pins her down, bringing the gun to her chin. At that very moment, something strikes the side of his helmet. Hard. He barely catches himself from falling over - the world spins and he feels violently sick suddenly, it passes just as quickly as it came. Emmanuella is looking at him with mild concern, Jordan in the corner is whooping in victory and shouting praises that Marius can’t quite make out right now. He slides himself off the French woman beneath him and slumps next to her, focusing his eyes on the splintering floorboards. Once he’s shaken the fuzz from his brain, he turns to his right and there’s Fuze - Shuhrat, standing next to him. When did he get there? The Uzbek extends a hand and Marius takes it. Standing so quickly was a terrible idea - his knees weak and his head woozy. Those pellets are no joke, they explode on impact and he almost shot Emma in the face. Honestly, better him than her. Large hands grip his shoulders to steady him,

“You okay?” Shuhrat asks him, his expressionless mask gazing back at Marius. 

“Doesn’t feel good does it??” Jordan hollers, helping Emma to her feet who’s at Marius’ side almost immediately. When he shakes his head, Shuhrat’s shoulders visibly relax and Emma breathes a sigh of relief.

“You knocked him pretty good, Shuh…" She wipes white talc off Marius’ helmet, “A hit to the side of the head like that could’ve caused some damage. Can you walk?” Shuhrat reluctantly lets go of the German, balling his hands at his sides. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Marius walks around, wobbling only slightly, to prove his point. “So… Did we lose?” Jordan chuckles, throwing an arm over the German’s shoulders as they all walk out together.

Outside, Gilles greets them. He wanted to check and see if he could get the video feed working but he explains that the system is fried. It’s not a priority anyway, he thought it would be useful to see all of them and more importantly, to have them observe each other. Under normal circumstances, they would’ve received better equipment but Rainbow scrapped all of this together so quickly there wasn’t much room for leisure. It feels very Spartan in a way, save for the Augmented Reality shooting range off at the far end of the training area. He makes a mental note to check it out tomorrow - he’s done for today. The majority of the arena is occupied by the half building they just walked out of. It’s like a two-story house that’s been cut down the middle, made up of wooden planks and steel beams. For how small it looks on the outside, it’s surprisingly spacious on the inside, like an optical illusion. Well, time to tell his team the bad news. At least the hostage survived. 

He thinks Shuhrat feels bad about popping him in the melon because he’s been hanging around him since they finished training. Well, Marius was the one who wanted to go over his blueprints but he wasn’t expecting the Uzbek to be so…eager. He’s still the same, understated bump on the log he usually is but it feels different. More honest. They talked machines for hours and continued to do so through dinner. Grilled salmon served with potatoes and Cacio e Pepe, which is a cheese and pepper pasta. He’d never had it before and Perez was right when he said the name is more bland than the dish. Although he dove at the chance to share his work, Shuhrat seemed much more hesitant when it came to his own. IIt’s clear that it’s not a lack of confidence. Perhaps he thinks it too precious to share with just anybody and Marius can’t help but feel more curious every time the other man turns down any requests to have a peek at his precious ‘Matryoshka’. One day maybe. 

By night time when everyone is winding down in the lounge, Marius is exhausted. Shuhrat is early to end the night again, and when he does, all the German’s energy leaves with him. Marius says goodnight to the room and hits the washroom before bed. On the way out he hears Monica and Elias chatting from the gym. He’s fairly certain they were doing the same thing last night. Maybe Elias likes to keep her company when she can’t sleep. He just hopes they try to rest at a reasonable hour. Says him, right? What a hypocrite. Sleep comes easy this time, welcoming him with open arms to what might be his first restful night in weeks.

The next morning goes by fast. He’s already getting used to the groove of his routine - he even got out of bed on his own. Much to Elias’ delight. It’s only an hour before noon when Gilles orders them to the conference room.

“Meeting with Six. Now.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Metaphorical shit may or may not be hitting the very literal fan.

He plays the message from Six over in his head. Well, he tries to. The motor of the helicopter is deafening, even with the aviation headphones provided for them. He’d argue that they make it worse, what with everyone trying to talk over all the noise. Just because there’s a mic attached to their face doesn’t mean that they need to use it. Not yet anyway. 

‘I’ve received an update on possible whereabouts of an unnamed terrorist organization.’

The message was relayed over half an hour ago, using a table-top projector so they could see her but she couldn’t see them. She was a beacon of light in a dark room and her voice rang out as clear and confident as ever but her face - she looked unsure. 

‘I need all of you to investigate an abandoned canal warehouse on the outskirts of Colmar.’ 

They were off in a matter of minutes. By the time they had all geared up, an H215M was already waiting for them at the helipad. He knows the trip was only forty minutes but he wouldn’t be surprised if someone told him it’s been two hours. 

‘Be cautious, we don’t yet know what we’re up against.’

The helicopter landed a mile out from their destination. They can’t be seen or heard so they walk the rest of the way. It’s a pleasant day; warm but not too hot and with moderate overcast. It might rain later. Once in view of the warehouse, they stick to spots heavy with foliage for cover while a couple of them duck down to deploy remote control drones, the rest keeping watch. 

‘The building is abandoned - still privately owned but no longer in use. Report anything you find and don’t confront anyone who may be inside.’

They search the entirety of the warehouse and not a soul was found, meaning they’re permitted to continue with the investigation. 

‘This is a covert mission, you are required to gather information and that’s it.’

Twitch and Glaz agree to stay outside and keep an eye out. Glaz will watch the perimeter while Twitch scouts ahead of the group with her drones. They fall into a line, Montagne leading the pack while Blitz covers their flank, and Shuhrat finds himself in the middle of it. Nervous energy courses through them like electricity and when some people are nervous they never shut up. Jager is one of these people. Making sure there were no terrorists about apparently meant the engineer could start flapping his gums all he wanted. He mumbles things to himself like how he’s read about warehouses being the most desirable locations for criminal activity and that ‘you’d think it’d be too obvious.' 

“Wonder what we’re expected to find…” he murmurs, and Thermite humors him.

“Maybe a big bucket of ice cream, big enough to swim in, with peanut butter cups and hot fudge.”

“Will you two stop?” IQ groans from up front. She scans each doorway before letting Montagne pass through; it’s her job to make sure there are no traps waiting for them and Shuhrat understands her desire for silence. Twitch reports back in,

“No defense systems active, no working cameras… We could’ve been sent after a red herring.” 

“We were sent here for a reason,” Montagne responds, remaining hyper-focused, “Did you see any boxes? Crates?”

“It’s a warehouse.” Twitch teases, offering no further help, she doesn’t seem too terribly concerned. Shuhrat can’t blame her but something feels off. They enter the large belly of the building, littered with forgotten equipment and tall shelves which for the most part are bare. Montagne orders the lot of them to split up into three groups to cover more ground. It may be one big room but it’s cluttered enough that some parts are sectioned off from the rest. It’s dark and dusty and quiet. Opaque windows decorate the high walls and even the ceiling, suffocated sunshine giving them just enough light to move around without bumping into anything. Several flashlights simultaneously cut through the darkness and soon the room is speckled with electric light that reflects off the metal interior, particles of smut dancing in their luster. Kapkan mentions the sunroof to Glaz who says he’ll camp out on the roof until they’ve finished. 

Their footsteps reverberate throughout the entire warehouse, these walls could pick up the sound of a pin dropping and they’d all hear it. It’s a disconcerting half silence that nobody cares to disturb as they divide and conquer. With only a swipe of his fingers he can tell that these crates haven’t been touched in years which raises the popular question of today: Why are they here? By the third empty crate he’s started to get really impatient, frustrated even, and he’s not the only one.

“Are we sure this is the right address?” Pulse half jokes, taking a seat on one of the crates. This doesn’t make any sense. While the others wind down and relax, he’s only becoming more and more agitated. 

“That ice cream idea is starting to sound pretty good,” Bandit chuckles, “We skipped lunch for this?” He gestures to a pile of mildewed newspapers and takes a seat next to Jack, elbowing him to scoot over. Shuhrat isn’t convinced. 

Just then he notices the ground, or rather what looks like a hatch carved into the pavement. It’s barely visible, the seams of it are so fine and there’s not even a handle - so much for looking inside but at least it’s something. He’s off like a hound following a scent, scouring the floor for anything that seems out of place. 

There’s a pile of what can only be described as junk shoved into one of the far corners of the room. Nothing special, no containers, just broken shelving and furniture that’s been thrown aside and neglected, but Shuhrat is starting to suspect that the clutter may be intentional. Using his flashlight, he peeks through the mess. Nothing on the ground but after some squinting he can tell there’s an opening behind the heap, he can’t see anything but darkness beyond the archway. He’s by no means a small guy but he’s squeezed through tighter spaces before, though ones that weren’t as prone to collapsing on him. 

“Kapkan,” He called out to Maxim who ‘hm’s curiously, walking away from where the majority of them had convened. 

“Did you find something?” They draw attention and the others are behind them just as quickly. They’re relaxed but hold their firearms at the ready, just in case. 

“Maybe,” Shuhrat responds, “Does Twitch have eyes?” As if prompted by his question, one of her drones zips between his feet and vanishes into shadow. 

“It’s ju--” Twitch’s feed cuts out abruptly and they all exchange an unspoken conversation, remaining absolutely silent. Nothing but garbled static transmits through their feed and when her drone doesn’t come back after the better half of a minute, Blitz breaks into a sprint towards the exit.

“I’m going to check on her!” He shouts, barging through the dual doors to the hall. Jager and IQ reflexively run after him without any hesitation.

“Not by yourself, dummkopf!” Jager hollers behind him. This is definitely breaking protocol. 

“Let’s not have everybody run off all at once!” Montagne orders before anybody else decides to cut along. They watch impatiently as the commanding Frenchman opens comms with their sniper on the roof. “Glaz, is Twitch at her post?” No response. “Glaz, Status!” Just static this time, it’s clear that the line is in use but there’s an electrical disturbance. 

While the others bicker over whether or not to hold their position, Shuhrat takes it upon himself to uncover this mystery at its source. He thrusts himself through the narrow opening of debris, his shoulder catching on a jagged piece of metal that was jutting out from fragmented shelving. He doesn’t even bother to check the damage, the pain is nothing compared to this sense of urgent anticipation. He’s vaguely aware of multiple voices calling out his operator name, a mess of questions and commands, but it’s so distant in his mind that he barely notices it, let alone cares. This is the mission. This is what they came for. 

He has to duck to get in and the space is even smaller that he was expecting. It’s scantily bigger than a crawl space and his flashlight illuminates its entirety. There’s a hatch like the one from before, paved over but the grooves are all-telling. Twitch’s drone sits next to it; it’s fully intact and Shuhrat stuffs it into his cargo pocket. He’s concerned but if she’s actually hurt then he’ll make damn sure it was worth the risk. This hatch doesn’t have a handle either so he uses the muzzle of his gun to pry it open. Safety on, he stabs the barrel into one of the grooves and, after a couple tries, he pops the lid. 

He readies himself, turning off his flashlight and the safety of his AK-12, sights locked on the trapdoor. The shouting behind him is suddenly extremely loud, like he’s finally hearing it for the first time. He knows it’s only a matter of time before one of them comes in to get him so he throws open the hatch door. Aiming at nothing, his body sags in relief and no shots are fired from inside either. It’s humbly lit and looks like it’s part of the building’s electrical room, judging by the busbar strips and switchgear along one of the walls. It’s odd enough that there’s power down here and not in the rest of the building, but there’s also a soft, unnatural blue glow in the corner. If he shuffles to the other side of the opening, he can see a split-screen surveillance monitor actively broadcasting the entire warehouse. The front and rear of the building, every room they’ve been in including where all of his team is now. Twitch can be seen in the same spot where they left her, only a minor relief at this point if he’s honest. 

This doesn’t make any sense; the security system is offline and over half the cameras are either broken or missing. There’s a bin haphazardly tossed on the ground by the desk and it’s filled with… cell phones? He doesn’t get a lot of time to think before there’s a hand on his shoulder. He starts, throwing his arm out in front of him, knocking the prowler back as he aims his gun at their center mass. Shuhrat immediately retracts when he sees Kapkan glaring back at him.

He swears at him in Russian and pushes the rifle away with overwhelming animosity, “What is wrong with you!?” The Uzbek silently turns back to the camera feed and encourages the other man to look through the hole in the ground. Kapkan doesn’t say anything, stricken by the realization that whoever inhabits this lower level is entirely aware of their presence. The monitor flickers with new movement and Shuhrat’s heart drops and his hands flush beneath his gloves. Kapkan shouts into the comm link and Shuhrat’s legs spring into action.

“Pull back! Your positions are compromised!” Hearing it out loud only makes Shuhrat more frantic. “Do you read me?!” The Uzbek practically plows through all the wood and the metal causing the pile to shift, pinning his foot under who knows what. The operator’s surround him, asking questions and helping to dislodge his boot. Nothing they say matters and once he’s free he keeps it short and sweet, not pausing for a moment longer. 

“An armed force, heading towards the entrance!” Those German idiots. The three of them open and exposed. It’s obvious at this point that their communication has been cut off all around, how it happened he has no idea. Everything was working fine until just a few minutes ago, it’s all happening so fast. They can cut them off at the entrance hallway if they can just get there in time. He’s sprinting at a breakneck speed and he knows the others are right behind him. After turning the corner into a long stretching corridore, he can see the three Germans jogging at a more casual pace towards the ‘T’ of the hall. Montagne hollers from behind,

“On alert!” This makes the other group stop and turn and that’s all they had time to do. 

Shuhrat nearly reaches IQ but he’s too late, that all-too-familiar sound of gunfire ricochets within echoing walls. Blitz is caught out in the open between the conjoining halls and the spray of crimson is undeniable. His team’s cries are engulfed by unforgiving fire. Blitz managed to bring his shield in front of him but the man is barely standing. IQ pulls him behind the wall and takes control of his shield to guard him. She’s screaming something while Jager is pulling out crude bandages, bending over their friend who is now slumped against the wall. Shuhrat, along with several of his team, have been providing covering fire. They’re not hitting anybody but it should keep them from pushing in, for now. 

Shuhrat keeps looking back to the crumpled form of Blitz on the floor; blood decorates his uniform in patches and Jager is applying pressure to his side with the bandages. The Uzbek is suddenly very thankful he can’t hear the man screaming, his face twisted in what he can only imagine is pure agony. 

They have to push back or they won’t be getting out of here. Without much thought, Shuhrat runs up to shoot from the corner, not daring to stick his head out to aim; his rifle jostles and thank god Montagne is at his side now. The rest fall behind and back them up, IQ gives the shield up so they can form a sort of barricade to block their way out. One of the men is shot down, quickly followed by another. He was wondering when Glaz would finally help. It seems he found a damn good spot from a window somewhere behind the enemy line. 

Glaz snipes at least five of them before they retreat into a seperate room, being flanked on both sides. Using the opportunity, IQ and Jager drag their wounded out the front doors, a trail of blood marking their exit. Covering fire doesn’t stop just because the enemy is out of sight, unloading onto the freshly shut door while walking backwards toward the entrance. For good measure, Shuhrat and Montagne toss smoke bombs before hightailing it out of this godforsaken warehouse. 

Outside, IQ is having a screaming match with some poor soul on the other end of her call. “His condition is critical, I need that medevac ASAP!” They all kept moving, Montagne threw Blitz over his shoulders to move him at a steady pace without painting France red by dragging him around on the ground.

“You don’t understand, we don’t have the time!” 

The rest of them don’t let the warehouse out of their sights until it’s disappeared behind green fields.

“He won’t last that long! He’s already lost a lot of blood…” All they can do is listen and hope, the desperation in IQ’s voice is a heart wrenching thing and the whole time she doesn’t look back - not even once. She can’t. 

“I understand. I’m sending the coordinates,” and the call ends. It’s a quiet journey for everyone but Blitz, who’s being yapped at by Bandit and Jager who are making sure he doesn’t pass out. He doesn’t look good. Shuhrat has been avoiding the thought, guilt gnawing at him like a wolf chewing off its own leg. His responsibility may be a good thing in the end. Everybody needs someone to blame.

After listening to Blitz grunt and wheeze the whole way, Shuhrat isn’t feeling any better when they get to the rendezvous point. Their ride home is here but no emergency helicopter yet. The second Montagne sets the gammied German down, IQ is in full panic mode, rushing the pilot for any medical equipment on board. She returns with an emergency medkit and plops down next to her comrade. 

“Help me.” She demands, not at any specific person. Pulse takes off the man’s helmet and slips his vest over his head while IQ uses scissors to cut open his uniform,exposing the gushing wound on his left side. 

“You will not die on me, do you understand?” She waits for him to nod his head weakly before shoving a roll of gauze in his mouth, “Bite down.” Blitz obeys and IQ keeps barking orders at the rest of them to hold the man’s arms and legs, keep an eye on his heart rate, and see if the pilot has any water. She’s pleased when the pilot runs over with a few bottles of drinking water, not hesitating to pour a whole bottle onto Blitz’s open wound. He groans through the gauze between his teeth and Shuhrat keeps one of his legs from kicking up in protest.

IQ then presses two non-adhesive pads to the wound and wraps them up with elastic bandages around his waist. His whole body tenses and Jager pulls down his friend’s mask, gently reminding him to breathe while Twitch recites a mantra, saying, ‘it’s okay’ or ‘you’re okay’. 

By the time the medevac arrives, Blitz is looking exceptionally tired. Montagne carries him the some-teen yards to the other helicopter and the German is lax when the EMPs strap him into a gurney. IQ never leaves his side, touching his cheek and mouthing words that can’t be heard over all the noise. She can’t go with him though, staring distantly into the sky even after the copter’s long gone.Bandit walks her back, tucking her into his chest, and signaling their pilot to get this show on the road. 

On the flight back, Shuhrat finally notices the pain in his body; his shoulder throbs and he can see the fabric there is torn. He’s fairly certain his ankle is sprained and a quick glance confirms that a few members had been shot - nothing too serious from the looks of it. For the first time in a long time, nobody has anything to say. Not even Jager, who holds his head soundlessly in his blood soaked hands.

\- - -

“I was doing my job.” He stated firmly in the face of disapproval. Most, if not all, members of the table were against him and understandably so. The conference room was starting to feel like a courthouse and he’s representing himself on the stand. 

Shuhrat was right in thinking he’d be blamed for what happened, and he should be. It was because of him that they didn’t leave sooner. Elias is his fault. After the initial shock of the situation, everybody could agree. But he uncovered more than any other agent. That’s the part he doesn’t understand.

“You were acting on instinct.” Gilles speaks like a father would, not angry but disappointed. “This isn’t the first time you’ve jeopardized others for the sake of the mission… You need to work on communicating.” 

Shuhrat stops listening at this point. This is stuff that he’s been told before and will be told again after Six receives the mission report. She’s still cross with him after his last mission; writing him up as careless and volatile, which he finds couldn’t be further from the truth. He ponders for a moment if this is a ‘three strikes and you’re out’ kind of deal. If so, this is his last strike. He supposes he’ll find out sooner or later. For now, he’ll take whatever punishment he deserves.

By dinner, he’s not feeling very hungry. He opts out of eating to lay in bed and do nothing for a while. There’s little to no noise made outside the private quarters which has him thinking maybe he’s not the only one who’s lost their appetite. He doesn’t know when he fell asleep but he keeps waking up, trapped in a limbo between dreaming and reality until he can’t tell the difference anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

It was so hot. In the helicopter, underneath his gear and even his skin, but he was shaking. Like a leafless tree being whipped by the wind. Everything felt like a blur. Like it didn’t even happen. He replayed it all like a movie over and over again, rewinding and fast-forwarding until it was no longer a sequence, just pictures flitting behind his eyes - but these pictures had sound and sensation and they were unrelenting. The steps they took to be extra cautious and how none of it mattered. Elias, bleeding out on the fuselage when he had been smiling and cracking jokes not even an hour prior. 

Every once in a while he’d come back to himself, to the present; his spirit shunting into his own body where it belonged but felt so foreign. The dank smell of aged dust clung to his mask and was starting to make him sick. Looking around him, his teammates said nothing - not to each other at least. He watched as Gilles’ lips formed words, talking to himself with ferocious intensity. Something about ‘should have’, ‘shouldn’t have’, ‘never again’. 

These short forty minutes stretched on forever, giving them all too much time to reflect. What people might not understand is that the hardest part about this job isn’t the rigorous training or the time and effort put into it, it’s not letting your emotions get the best of you. His hands were ice cold but his head throbbed feverishly, heat pulling up from his gut then back down in waves. Dull burning bloomed from his right shoulder and after brief inspection he found bits of shrapnel embedded under his collarbone. Acknowledging it caused a sudden spike in pain, the nausea from before returning with a vengeance, and he quickly thought of all the places he could vomit without it hitting someone. He held his head, keeping it steady from the motion of the aircraft, and prayed for God to wake him up already. 

Upon arrival they were greeted by the coordinator and each operator underwent a hasty physical exam; Identifying wounds and their severity, whether or not any medical discharge was necessary, asking questions that Marius knew were intended to gauge their mental stability. His presence was fleeting, a brief visit to assess their well-being and gather a direct report of the incident. He knew about Elias’ evacuation and when questioned he stated that his condition on arrival was critical, any further updates would have to go through Six and be released at her discretion. 

One by one, the injured were sent to the coordinator’s quarters, leaving the conference room and its rising tensions behind. Dominic and Aleksander were called out before him, and neither came back by the time he was ushered out the door and into suite 1. 

It wasn’t any different than the rest; same lifeless interior, same shitty bed that’s been promoted to a makeshift examination table. They didn’t have any painkillers. Only a topical numbing agent that the warden slathered on once his torso was bared to him. Light touches felt like nails digging into his shoulder and Marius had to brace himself when a pair of forceps came into view. 

“You ready?” The man asked and Marius wondered if keeping the shrapnel in would really be so bad. His body reacted before his mind could and he felt himself nodding before he had any time for protest. 

It didn’t take long. The coordinator worked efficiently with years of experience on his belt, all Marius had to do was sit there and take it. His toes curled in his boots and he clenched his eyes shut, sucking in air through his teeth. It certainly wasn’t the most painful thing he’d experienced and this was nothing compared to what he had seen Elias go through - and countless men before him. 

After a peroxide baptism, he’s bandaged up and sent on his way with a goodie bag of medical supplies. Nothing extravagant; just tape, rubbing alcohol and extra dressing. Even though the tape is labeled as ‘waterproof’, he was advised not to get it wet for the next 24 hours. That didn’t stop him from hitting the showers during dinner. He feels guilty for not eating when Perez works so hard but he can’t bring himself to do it. Part of him worries that if he puts anything in the tank that he’ll actually purge. In fact, everything but the pit of his stomach was numb, even his wound felt barely there by this point. All he wanted was to wash away this feeling that clung to his skin like tar; the guilt and the despair, and the iron smell of blood. 

Time holds no precedence once he’s enveloped by heat and steam, water running down his back and wetting his bandages. It stings but he couldn’t care less, this is his haven, temporary as it may be. Marius presses his arms to the tile wall and rests his forehead there, lost and floating within these walls. It didn’t feel fair to him - of all the people… It should’ve been him. 

He stands there until the water runs cold, stubbornly refusing to move even as his teeth begin to chatter. It’s a euphorically numb sensation. One that he wishes he could transfer to his mind and maybe stop kicking himself in the ass for what happened. At some point he does put an end to his shameless waste of water, his lips blue by the time he’s out. It’s dark outside, the sun gone and the night sky is aglow. 

Back home there are very little stars. The best part about doing what he does is getting to travel to places like these, where the sky is so bright and full, ready to burst open and spill over the Earth. It’s a melancholy thought that he’s allowed to witness such things when others may never get the chance. He finds himself staring out the gym window for who knows how long until he spots a shadow in the corner. 

“Monica?” He keeps his voice low, hoping not to alarm her. It’s dark but that’s her alright, blonde hair reflecting moonlight like a painting in motion. Her hands wipe her face and a minute passes before she responds.

“Hey.” Her voice sounds tired, weak, “I didn’t see you… How long have you been standing there?” She laughs in a way that is more akin to a sharp exhale. 

“Uhh,” Marius doesn’t actually know. He’s not even aware of the time since he hasn’t checked since they got back. Not really wanting to. “Not long.” Hopefully. He steps deliberately lightly towards her, not sure why he feels the need to be particularly cautious. She says nothing and he’s frozen in place, no words come to mind and his tongue feels thick in his mouth. Maybe he’s disrupting her privacy but she scoots over on the bench; an invitation he tentatively accepts. 

For a short time they stare out the window. A rustling of paper draws his eyes to Monica’s lap, where she fiddles with a half-eaten nutrient bar. When she notices his interest, she offers it up for him. 

“I can’t eat any more.” She practically shoves it into his hands, fully aware that he hasn’t eaten anything since that morning. Marius is sure this is all she’s had as well. He takes her offer, not that he had much of a choice. He doesn’t get more than a couple bites in before Monica starts what he wasn’t sure he was ready for.

“He would visit me. Late at night, like this, any time we’re stationed together.” Watching her didn’t offer a whole lot beyond listening to a shadow, except for when neon light from the vending machine caught her by different angles. He can tell when she’s smiling with the rise of her cheeks painted pink and yellow. It’s full of so much sorrow and Marius has to shove the rest of the bar in his mouth to keep himself from choking up. “But he’s like that with everyone. Always going the extra mile to support everybody. So caring and he stays so positive even when all the odds are against him. He’s like a sun; bright and warm… and people would revolve around him for that life-giving warmth.” Her smile disappears and her face is cast in shadow once again. She’s quiet for a long moment, nodding to herself, looking back between Marius and the sky. 

“I didn’t realize i was one of them until today.” Another laugh, on the borderline of a sob. The staticy buzz of electricity makes him more conscious of the ringing in his ears. He can see Monica’s shoulders tremble and it mimics the fluttering of his own heart. He’s never seen her like this before. So strong and stoic most of the time, she doesn’t really talk about herself so this is a first for him. She’s being so vulnerable and open and he can’t help but want to do the same. His hand finds itself holding her shoulder firmly, maybe a little too firmly but she doesn’t recoil from it. 

“It should’ve been me.” Marius blurts out, slapping his other hand against his face, unsure of whether to cover his mouth or his eyes, of which feel like they will overflow if given the chance. Saying it out loud makes him feel so weak, so helpless. His uncle would be ashamed, ‘you’re a man, act like it’, he’d say. Both his wrists are pulled up and he’s forced to look a silhouetted shadow in the face.

“Don’t say things like that.” She shakes his wrists with barely contained aggression, “Do you really think that anything would be different? It’s not a matter of who, we all need each other, Marius.” He wants to believe that but he knows things would be different. Elias is like their glue, making sure they all stick together in the face of adversity. 

“He would know what to do!” The volume of his own voice rattles him and even Monica, who releases him from her grip, surprised. Marius gives himself a moment then takes a deep breath, “I froze up." He flips through mental photo albums of combat he's witnessed before, people he's seen fall, and how he was always ready for it. He's never lost anyone close to him. The image of Elias atop a hospital bed, hooked up to tubes and wires is like a knee to the gut. "That’s never happened to me before, even in Basic. If it weren’t for you- I don’t know. I keep thinking I could’ve done something differently but when it came down to it I did nothing.” He scoffs, digging his fingers into the fabric of his pants while keeping his eyes down. 

“You know, I was trying to find a reason- a source and-” he snorts scornfully, “when people started pointing fingers I jumped at the chance and went straight for Shuhrat. I mean, I actually yelled at the guy, I was furious. He just stood there and took all of it, and not just from me,” Marius paused. The way Shuhrat was so composed, like none of this had an effect on him made Marus’ blood boil. However, he knows there has to be more than meets the eye, “but he’s not to blame.”

“--And neither are you,” Monica interjects, forcibly halting his train of thought. Hands grip his shoulders abruptly, “Elias is the one who ran off alone… and I know he’d do it again. Idiots like him always get themselves into trouble thinking they can hold back the world. We were sloppy but it won’t happen again. Not while we’re around, right?” She gives his shoulders a rub, reigniting the sting from his wound but he pays no mind, pulling her into his arms. She makes a noise and he prays that she’s not too uncomfortable. They’ve never hugged before but he figured they both could use one right now. After realizing he’s not letting go any time soon, her body relaxes, if only a little bit.

“He’ll pull through,” Marius whispers. Reflexively, Monica’s arms squeeze him tighter, “The man is made of steel.”

  
  


The next morning Marius slept in, hadn't even heard his alarm go off. Nobody came to wake him and his day starts off feeling overwhelmingly lonesome in Elias' absence. He vaguely remembered the time being 03:30 when he found his bed last night; or was it 04:30? He mumbled mindlessly, pulling on a pair of jeans. It was now a quarter to noon which meant he missed breakfast and will only have time to hit the gym before training. He nabbed his laptop before exiting his room, he might as well try and keep himself busy. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed at the realization that he probably looked a mess. He just hoped he wasn't the only one. 

Once through the doors, Marius could feel several sets of eyes following him to the food station but didn't dare check. Everything was set up but Perez wasn't hanging around like usual, maybe cleaning up the kitchen already. Marius is tempted to sneak back there and offer to help as an excuse to not eat but he's not even sure why he's avoiding it at this point. It's just soup and salad today and he doesn't mind one bit, using his laptop as a very expensive tray. There's still plenty of both and when he turns around he can see why; at least four heads are missing and of the people present, not all of them are eating. Emmanuella calls him over almost immediately and he takes the empty seat across from her. Gilles greets him with a half suppressed smile and Monica flags her hand in 'hello'. Marius makes it a point not to think about how he's sitting where Elias otherwise would be. 

They don't say much. Emma tries to keep everyone engaged but between spoonfuls of what is presumably a potato stew, Marius goes over schematics sent from BPOL. There’s no need to listen when he can  _ feel _ the discomfort and forced pleasantries between them, he honestly wants no part in it. He’s never been good at not addressing the elephant in the room but even he knows that sometimes ignoring the elephant is better. Subconsciously, his hand comes up to pinch his temples in an attempt to keep himself focused.

"So, Jager... That translates to 'Hunter', doesn't it?" Gilles asks, a little awkwardly. Marius has talked with Emma about the French commander's socially stilted mannerisms before and how she's been supporting his growth. "I've been learning German and I was curious how you came up with it," He's uncomfortable, doesn't know what to say, but he's making an effort and Marius doesn’t have the heart to ignore him. 

"'Hol sie dir, Jager'. That's what my uncle used to say to me when I was studying at University." He closed his laptop, frustrated that he can't focus long enough to read a single page. "It basically means, 'go get 'em, Hunter'. It was one of the few things my uncle actually got excited about," that last comment came out a lot more bitter than he meant it. He suddenly decides he can't stomach anymore soup and stares past Gilles' head, nodding occasionally without really listening. He takes note of who's missing: Dominic, Aleksander, Maxim and Timur. He finds it odd that Shuhrat is sitting alone, the other Spetsnaz operators nowhere to be found. Guilt finds its way back to him, eating away like rot. He should apologize. 

He waits for a dip in conversation before putting up his dishes and making a beeline for Shuhrat. He plunks his laptop down a lot louder than he was expecting and his insides curtle, teeth clamping down on his lower lip. Hastily, he plants himself in the seat next to the Uzbek, head in his hand once again.

“Sorry. I just- uhm wanted to…” his attention shifts eagerly to what the other man was occupying himself with; scribbling away on blue parchment with a white pencil, he’s definitely working on a blueprint of sorts. He hasn’t seen anyone use paper blueprints in years. Curiosity begs him to ask a list of questions, already pre-written and stored away in his memory but that’s not what he came to do and he hates himself two-fold for it. “I wanted to apologize.” 

Shuhrat keeps working, completely unaware of the other man’s presence. At least, seemingly so. Marius continues regardless; this can be a one-sided conversation for all he cares but it needs to be said, “About yesterday, I mean, not-” he gestures towards his computer dismissively. Why was this so hard? Talking to him now made his muscles tense and his chest tighten like he’s afraid of being rejected. Maybe that’s what it was; it’s entirely possible he ruined something before it even started and Shuhrat will close himself off completely. “--Anyway, it wasn’t fair of me to go after you like I did. I thought I needed a reason why and- hey--” In an instant, Shuhrat collects his things, stands, and leaves out the double doors without a word. Marius watches him go. He thinks about yelling or chasing him down, but he doesn’t. Point made.

Marius hits the gym shortly after, thinking about nothing other than a hot shower the whole time. Gilles makes it known that there’s no programmed team exercise today but they’re encouraged to train on their own if they choose. Marius doesn’t choose, he even ends his routine early to use up all the hot water this godforsaken place has.. Time spent alone is both a conciliating yet hazardous experience. For Marius, it opens the floodgates built to keep unwanted thoughts from trickling into his pool of clarity. At times like this he does better if he surrounds himself with friends and the like but lately he’s been giving into what he wants and not what he needs. But now, his needs and wants bleed into each other, muddling his coherence and further sending him down this path of isolation and ambivalence. 

The one thing he knows for sure is physical perception; hot liquid spraying his back and shoulders red, an addictive sensation of being wrapped in a feeling that’s not inflicted by the mind but something external. Water seeps through his bandaging and a part of him revels in that pain. Maybe he deserves it, or maybe it’s a more selfish escape from his own accountability. Stepping out of the shower sends a chill of vulnerability up his spine and he’s thankful for the thick blanket of steam wafting over him. He sits on one of the wooden benches, tousling his hair with a towel, when he hears the bathroom door swing open. He freezes in place and before he knows it, Dom’s standing in front of him all too casually, peering down at him through the clouds. 

“Thought you’d drowned,” Dom teases. He stands proudly with his hands on his hips like he knew right where to find him, “Come on then, stop moping and put some clothes on.” Marius gapes at him in disbelief, just now thinking to shove his towel into his lap and shield his indecency. 

“What--”

“Don't be shy, nothing I haven’t seen before,” Dom’s cheshire grin makes Marius’ head run hot. Now he’s positive he’s being fucked with, Dom is always trying to get under his skin and he only tries when he thinks it’ll work. It always works.

“Fuck off,” Marius spits. Whatever mood he was in, it’s gone now but maybe that’s a good thing.

“Hey now,” Dom presents his hands in surrender, “I only came in here to tell you the cook brought you something. Not to get an eyeful of your prick, believe me.” Marius decidedly ignores that last part.

“You mean, Perez? He has something… for me?” Incredulously, he points at his own chest.

“Well, it’s for all of us,” Dominic starts walking out of view, not wanting to overstay such a gracious welcome. “But I think you’re his favorite. Don’t leave him waiting,” with that, the door shutting reverberates within tile walls. He hasn’t seen Perez all day. He grabs his phone off the top of his clean clothes and is shocked to see it’s already so late, not even an hour left before dinner. He slips into some loungewear and ends up studying his reflection for a long while, trying to remind himself of who he is and that it’s not synonymous with how he feels. Pale blue eyes look back at him quizzically, who is he really? Calm, collected and confident. Right?

  
  


The mess hall is backed up with everyone forming an actual line, more or less. An aroma that can only be described as heavenly graces his entry, along with Emma and Dom who are at the ass-end of the line with him.

“Marius, are you doing okay?” Emma rests her hand on his shoulder, her touch so feather light that he forgets almost entirely that his injury is there, and her eyes show such genuine concern that he could cry, “You’ve been so distant and, well, quiet. I’m here if you want to talk, okay?” 

“She said the same thing to me, don’t fall for it,” Dom butts in and Emma slaps him in the chest.

“Some people actually want to talk about their problems, enfoiré.” The two bicker on and on, it’s clear that everyone is a little on edge but it doesn’t stop Marius from laughing under his breath. He’s missed this but at the same time he doesn’t feel like he’s allowed to enjoy himself after yesterday. 

“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks,” he mentions softly and it’s amazing that both of them shut up when he does. Shuffling closer to the hot food station, he can hear Perez talking excitedly and see him serving each plate personally. One after the other until he's face to face with the Barcelonian. 

"Marius, good to see you," His tone remains energetic yet reserved, "tonight's special is Coq au vin, or Cock with Wine." Marius' lips pull together and he sends a quick glance Emma's way, to which she leans in and whispers, "Rooster.” Of course. What else would it be? 

"The local wines are from Alsace so I used Riesling instead of a more traditional Burgundy. You’ve had it before?” Marius and Dominic shake their heads while Emma nods hers. 

“Ma grand-mère used to make Coq au vin for special occasions, like my birthday,” She looks at her dish fondly, “Never had it with Riesling, I’m very excited to try it, thank you.”

“Of course,” Perez replies and pauses before handing Marius his dish, “I heard about what happened with Elias, I’m very sorry," His voice is now relaxed, almost quiet, and Marius wasn't prepared. In his peripherals he can see Dominic leaving but Marius keeps his eyes focused on Perez's hands; chicken breasts placed in a flat bowl with lardons and mushrooms, braised in an aromatic wine reduction. "I wanted to do something for you guys, and I'm not just talking supper," he winks while handing the bowl to Marius. "Come see me in the lobby when you're done."

Marius is probably making some kind of face as they walk away because Emma snickers at him, telling him 'not to worry'. His job is to worry, he's not stopping now. However, this cock, or rooster, in wine does wonders in pacifying his anxiety. For the first time since Elias has been away, he feels content - and hungry. There's a buzz in the room, who’d have thought something so simple could lift all their spirits, it gives a new appreciation for what Perez does. Marius starts shoveling food into his mouth so fast he almost chokes. Dominic chortles, mouth full of food and soon they’re both coughing. Emma can’t help but laugh herself, elbowing Gilles in the ribs to lighten up a little. 

They get through the rest of their meal without choking to death, somehow, and Marius then walks around gathering dishes. Jordan and Jack go back and forth teasing the German, asking if he'll do their laundry as well. Marius rolls his eyes but knows he'd give in easily if they sincerely asked him to. His heart sinks the second he locks eyes with Shuhrat, accepting bowls and silverware handed to him from the table he felt welcome to just yesterday. Timur thanks him and Maxim follows suit but Shuhrat remains silent, as expected, but it's still a disappointment. 

Marius finishes cleaning up, stacking dirty dishes up on one of the stainless steel counters. He hopes this helps Perez out a little since he's not allowed back in the kitchen. He sighs, tapping his fingers along the counter. He's nervous but isn't sure why. The others have already gone to the living space where Perez is waiting for him. He should go. Any minute now. Suddenly something bumps into him and he has to keep himself from knocking over the bowls.

"Stop that," Dominic's voice rings behind him. Marius turns around quickly, 

"Stop what?"

"That," he swirls his hand, " _ Thing _ you do. Getting in your own head, thinking too much. Cut it out." 

Marius is taken aback, not knowing how to respond. Because he's right. 

"Look," Dom starts again, "I miss him. I'm worried. But I  _ choose _ to believe he's okay and already annoyed with all the nurses fussing over him." He shoves his hands down his pockets and squares his shoulders, "That's all we  _ can _ do. Go easy on yourself." 

Marius has nothing to say to any of this but he soaks up every word like a sponge; he hasn't even considered how Dom is being affected, too focused on himself. He's been selfish. After nodding his head, Dom crooks his chin towards the exit, "Come on."

  
  


The lobby is as full as ever and all the chatter has him throwing his attention this way and that. Perez isn't here yet. When he asks if anybody has seen him, Aleksander mentions he heard the Barcelonian say something about his car. Marius pats his thighs anxiously, looking around the room, waiting. One of the front doors bursts open just when he was starting to think they wouldn't. Perez's head pops up from behind the box he's carrying. 

"A votre santé!" The man hollars enthusiastically. Emma and a couple others say it back. Marius' French is very limited but he's familiar with the phrase 'cheers'. Perez drops the box onto the coffee table and it's contents clatter noisily. "I thought you could all use a little pick-me-up so I got some extra 'ingredients' while I was in town," he pulls out two bottles, one in each hand, brandishing the labels for all to see. White wines, probably fresh from Alsace as he'd mentioned it's local to this region. Several faces in the room blanch at the sight and Marius panics, only a little, 

"Perez, what- you could lose your job for this!" He shouts but in a whisper, not sure who he doesn't want listening. Peering into the box there's three more bottles and he pulls one out, "I mean, what were you think- oh my God is this absinth?" The green bottle labeled La Fée stares back at him with a single eye, judging his hesitance. Emma rushes over and plucks the bottle from his hands, looking it over as a small crowd forms behind her. She mumbles something quietly to herself before looking back to the culprit, 

"This is so expensive! Perez, you really shouldn't have done this… We're not permitted to drink here."

"And I'm not permitted to let you drink it," Perez smiles impishly, "I won't tell if you won't." He shimmies with the wine still in his hands, "Just for tonight." 

Every head turns to Gilles, who's looking absolutely terrified. He opens his mouth, glances around and closes it. The poor guy looks like he might start sweating before unceremoniously turning on his heels, heading for the barracks. 

"I didn't see  _ anything _ ," he claims, shutting the door behind him. Leaving them in a room, without supervision, and about five bottles of liquor.

The night started out slow, half of them, Marius included, still nervous about drinking on the job. The risk of them getting caught was low, the risk of them being called out on a mission was even lower; so others like Jordan, Aleksander and Dominic counted their blessings. Perez didn't stay long, still having to drive home. He left the kitchen unlocked and said they can put the box in the pantry when they're done, he'd get it tomorrow. After he left, the room relaxed a little but tensions were still high. Noticing the hesitance, Jordan suggested playing a game. This game he called 'Kings'. This got Jack on board, who started shuffling a deck of cards while Jordan relayed the rules.

Marius is surprised to see everybody participating, gathered in a circle around the coffee table. Chairs had been dragged over and met with the corner sofa where Marius, Emma and Dom had chosen to sit. Monica perches on the corner, ready to flee if necessary. Even Shuhrat occupies one of the chairs across from him. Albeit, Maxim and Timur have arms around the Uzbek so Marius figures he's not too happy about it. Dom guilted him into playing so they're in similar boats. Maxim catches him looking and Marius redirects his attention to the table. In the box there’s a bottle of Pastis liqueur, which he had never heard of until now, and another bottle of wine. Perez even thought to get them a bag of plastic cups, how thoughtful. Jordan continues explaining the rules of the game and Marius isn’t keeping up like he should. A cup is shoved into his hand and straight off he thinks this is a bad idea. 

“What is it?” he asks Dom who’s passing around more drinks for the lot of them. 

“Wine.”

“What  _ kind _ of wine, you prick?” 

Dom hands out the last cup before reading the bottle in question. He makes a strangled sound and tosses the bottle to Emmanuella, “Here, you do it.” The frenchwoman fumbles with the open bottle but catches it successfully, giving Dom a nasty look,

“Crémant d’Alsace,” she pauses, “I’m going to just keep this up here with me. For the rest of the night. Thank you.” She holds it in her lap for safe keeping. Curiously, Marius gets a good whiff of his drink and takes a sip. Yep. That’s definitely wine. He’s never been too fond of it himself but he trusts Emma’s favor is well placed. 

The game starts, a ring of downturned cards surround a lone cup in the middle of the table. It’s filled to the brim with… whatever Jordan made. Since Jack dealt, he takes the liberty of starting the order, “I’ll go first and we’ll run clockwise. Draw a card on your turn but don’t break the ring. You break it, the game ends and you gotta chug all of this in one go,” he taps the rim of the ‘king’s cup’. Marius and Monica exchange a mutual look of disgust before the first card is drawn. 

“Four.” Thumping tremors through the floor and Marius looks back to see everyone with their hands down to the ground. Monica gets with the program and does the same, abandoning Marius with his loss. 

“Drink up, buddy,” Jack points to him and Marius already regrets agreeing to this.

As the game goes on, they all refuse to remind him of the rules, saying ‘he should’ve paid attention’. Even Emma watches him with sadistic cruelty as he’s poured his third drink of the night. Dominic is being the least helpful for his cause; giving out drinks to him constantly when the cards deem it so, forcing him to drink as a rule every time he ‘makes that face’, and trying to find any way to get him as drunk as possible. His head is spinning and he vows to himself to never drink wine again. The lord himself came down and forced Shuhrat’s hand to draw just the right card, breaking the circle and ending Marius’ suffering. 

“Thank youuu!” Marius drawls, pouring the rest of his drink into Dom’s cup and almost overflowing it, “And fuck you.” Emma cries out behind him, a short-lived ‘no!’ as she’s forced to witness such a crime of good wine wasted. She deserves it too, Marius thought, looking at Shuhrat who now holds the King’s Cup in his hands. There’s a lot of rooting and goading from his comrades but Shuhrat likely didn’t need any of it. He guzzles down the whole thing in seconds, losing some of it through the corners of his mouth. Marius empathetically swallows, whatever was in there has to burn given Shuhrat's warped expression after slamming the cup back down on the table. The cheering doesn't stop, even as he holds a fist to his mouth, making sure everything stays inside. 

"Are you good?" Timur asks, checking the perimeter for a bag or something. The room goes quiet, anticipating the possibility of a vomit shower. Thankfully it doesn't come and Shuhrat nods his head, letting out a deep breath. The silence breaks with applause, Marius hoots and others holler, mostly happy they don't have to scrub the carpet. 

They all branch off in groups, a gradual migration to what they're used to. Far more relaxed now with everyone being reasonably tipsy. Emma enthuses about her work with Marius who mirrors her energy instinctually. It's literally one of his favorite topics and she's so knowledgeable in robotics that she can answer almost all of his questions. She falters when asked if fully automated androids will exist and if they'll have human emotions or not. She's optimistic about what the future holds and says if that happens in her lifetime she'll be the first to marry one. 

Aleksander and Dominic band together to organize group shots of the highly anticipated Absinth. Marius can already feel a headache coming on but he's suckered in when Emma calls him a bitch. Timur and Monica sit this one out while the rest receive a brisk pour of green brew in their cups. Dom is the one designating drinks again and when Marius accepts his, he's fairly certain there's more than just two ounces of liquor in it. No time to question, the countdown begins: 3, 2, 1… the concoction numbs his lips immediately and the burn is twice as bad as he was expecting. Some of it gets caught in his throat and he's coughing up a lung before he can finish. He's not the only one and Dom comes over to pat his back. When the cup is lifted back to his lips against his will, Marius realizes it was a trap all along. He's forced to choke down what was  _ definitely _ more than a shot and it hits his stomach like a bag of stones.

"I think I'm gonna throw up," he whines. It's official, Dom is trying to poison him. Visiting the bathroom is in his best interest but he can barely stand let alone  _ walk _ . He just needs to sit down. Flopping onto the couch, he notices Monica isn't there anymore. Maybe she went to bed already. That sucks. Marius feels especially bad for Gilles, he can't be sleeping with all the noise and he acts like he can't be a part of it either… is this okay? Is this fair to them? To Elias? Marius looks back to the group and it feels so much emptier now. He's glued to the couch, unable to get up even though he wants to. At one point Emma runs back to the rooms and Marius can hear her whining at Gilles' door like a shunned puppy. Something about how he should come out and have fun and how ‘he always told her she could move mountains'. It stops after a while and she's probably gone to bed as well. 

It's lonely. He's dizzy and nauseous and can't get his eyes to focus for longer than a minute. He could engage in conversation, throw his two cents out there, but he doesn't. His drunken state keeps him idle and alone within the confines of his own mind. This was a terrible idea. 

His eyes follow Dom, his posture and who he talks to. He catches himself shifting back to Shuhrat now and again; he wonders if he's still mad, if they might ever talk about mechanical engineering again. Oh, he wants nothing more than that right now. The Uzbek is looking uncharacteristically disheveled; his face is slightly flushed and his eyes look like they belonged to a corpse. That drink he had looked putrid, a vile mixture of several wines and Pastis, he gags just thinking about it. Then after, he had not one, but two shots. The man is monstrous. That man is walking this way. 

Marius swivels his head away so fast he heard a  _ pop _ and sucks in his lower lip, stifling a groan. How long had he been staring? Does he want to fight about it? Is Shuhrat an aggressive drunk? His thoughts run at a mile a minute, preparing him for the worst case scenario. What actually happened was something he hadn't even considered.

"Still interested to see what I'm working on?" 

  
  


Shuhrat's room seemed cleaner than his. He'd make a joke about how empty his walls are but all their walls are empty. Even though it's as stuffy and bland as any other, Marius is honored to be in it. Shuhrat pulls equipment from the bottom drawer of his dresser; mechanical parts, hand tools, folders. It made the German's eyes widen in awe - it's really happening. Presented to him is one of the folders, no label or anything just a blank beige. Inside are blueprints like the one he saw earlier; they're plans for a prototype for, titled: Matryoshka. 

"The slightest modifications can make a big difference," Shuhrat quoted him, his accent thicker than usual as he leans against the wardrobe, a little wobbly. "I liked your idea, I'm stealing it." He grins subtly. Marius isn't sure whether to be elated or horrified. He thinks the man is being friendly but he's so intimidating, and to call him here - to his room, of all places. And he agreed to it. His legs totter, attention brought back to the woozy tingle in his veins. He falls back onto the bed, sitting on its edge, Shuhrat's trust at his fingertips. Why he's doing this he doesn't care to think about. He's tired of worrying, this is what he wanted and Shuhrat knew, like some crazy mind reading genius. 

"Tolle!" He feels as though his mood did a 180, "Your structure is so organized. So these are the plans for your prototype?" The other man nods and Marius dives further into the folder, sifting through pages. "Do you have your original plans for reference?" As if on queue, Shuhrat hands him a leatherback binder; initial test models all the way to his finished product and what's currently sitting on the dresser next to its creator. 

"I'm extending the projectile radius. Give it more kick." Amazing. Inspired. His hunger for knowledge takes over like he's possessed by an ancient scholar. If only he could get a look inside… 

"May I?" He asks sheepishly, pointing to the little mechanism that has, without a doubt, killed numerous people. No thinking about that now as he waits for a pass. The other man lifts a hand in welcome before bracing on the dresser again. This might be the day Marius shits himself. He jumps up and becomes immediately dizzy, nausea creeping back up his esophagus. Ignoring it, he leans next to Shuhrat and begins to poke and prod the device with a small needle. Finding it's trigger points, cross-referencing the blueprints to the real thing and imagining how it could be improved. He starts mumbling praises, suggestions, pointing out how his improvements could be applied with as little tinkering as possible. He's in his element, forgetting who he's talking to and acting like he's in the presence of an old friend. 

Maybe he's being too invasive of his work, maybe he brushed up against him too often but Shuhrat goes stiff and rigid. He looks troubled, or maybe sick, and Marius is reminded of how fucked up the guy must be. 

"What's wrong?" He asks, that feeling from before hitting him like a pile of bricks. Like he's scared he's done something wrong - again.

"Get out," it's quiet, barely audible, and Marius' limbs numb. Frozen in place by that low voice. 

"I- I didn't mean to--"

"Go." He doesn't look at him, staring off into space. Marius doesn't want to leave, he wants to ask why, what he did wrong. 

He does leave though, shutting the door quietly behind him. He nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees someone standing across the hall, barely six feet away; it's Maxim. 

"You scared the piss out of me," Marius grabs his chest. Maxim doesn't react, taking three steps exactly and stopping.

"He's a tough nut to crack, huh?" Marius awkwardly rubs his neck, he presumes the question is rhetorical. "You'll get through to him. He just needs a little push. Keep pushing." 

Marius has never been so confused. He, also, has never been more positive that he's going to puke. Scorching heat travels from his toes all the way to his neck and he has to run to get to a toilet in time. He's there for hours and at no point does he feel comfortable leaving the stall, too sick to want to risk it. Fuck Absinthe. Fuck wine. Never again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a while! I've been struggling with my health recently and I appreciate the patience.
> 
> Heed some of the warnings in the tags. Shuhrat has anger issues.

What a mess this all was. Shuhrat didn’t sleep for the better half of the night, too busy tossing and turning while his guts sloshed sickeningly with every breath. Intrusive thoughts bombarded his already ill-protected mind and they all came to the same conclusion: Marius is becoming a problem. He sat up, finally giving up on the idea of rest. There are better ways for him to waste time. 

The water here takes a while to warm up, so Shuhrat let it run as he brushed away that distinct sour taste from his mouth. Noticing his reflection felt surreal, it always did; the more years that pass, the more he resembles his father. He couldn’t help but grimace, scrunching his nose and knitting his brow and now, he  _ really _ looked like him. He spat and then scalded his skin as he entered the shower. 

‘Careless’. One word had never taunted him so much. It followed him around like a broken hound, rearing its ugly head at the worst of times. His fists clenched and unclenched, his body unsure how to expel this energy. He'd better find an outlet soon, standing idle was unhealthy for him. Getting soap in his eye didn't help his temper any and he quickly abandoned the showers in favor of putting his body to work in the gym. 

It was early - too early for most. The base was eerily quiet and yet the pounding behind his temples was relentless. The sun had another hour or so to rise and the sky was aglow with soft blue light, marking the coming of morning. It made the gym look like an underwater scape, dark but illuminated just enough to see with no strain. He felt a presence in the room with him but when he turned around nobody was there. He felt painfully alone in that moment. 

As he started a brisk jog, his mind kept returning to last night - hard to forget while his body ached in constant reminder. It was foolish. Grown men and women acting like college kids, he wanted no part in it, though he wasn’t given much of a choice. He sped up the treadmill’s pace. 

Somewhere along the way he started to enjoy himself, much to his chagrin. The booze was to blame, of course, but he couldn’t shake this distressing feeling. At the end of the night he made a mistake. Marius was holding his attention for too long and Shuhrat couldn't stand how vulnerable the German was around others; it made him feel responsible for him. Like he needed his protection. 

It's hard to remember all that happened but he can easily recall how he felt - and with Marius openly talking with such admiration, such passion, and being so himself… he was happy. He was reminded so much of  _ her _ . 

If there is a God, Shuhrat is hated by him.

By now he’s broken into a full sprint; distracting himself with the burning in his lungs and the tension in his legs until it’s not enough and he has to move on to something that’ll better keep his focus. 

Beating his frustrations into a punching bag kept him busy through sunrise. Up until IQ traipsed in, barely making a sound, but the moment she noticed him she left as soon as she came. Is he really that scary? Or maybe, like him, she needed a private place to vent. 

It was sobering and left him feeling rather deflated as he wiped the sweat from his brow. He felt childish. Exhaustion swept over him as though a sudden storm had rolled in. The room started spinning and the corners of his vision darkened in tandem with his heartbeat. The natural movement of his legs felt automatic, an involuntary response as he stumbled in the direction of the fridge. He became faintly aware that someone was next to him but paid no mind as he pulled out a bottle of water and guzzled down the full thing, plastic crinkling noisily as he squeezed out the very last drop.

“What are you doing?” Timur’s voice came as a relief, Shuhrat doubts he could tolerate anybody else right now. He doesn't think to respond, waiting for his vision to steady and for feeling to return to his hands, which are holding him upright.

"You look like shit." On second thought, Shuhrat could go without the company. He takes to leave but a wave of vertigo and nausea almost knock him down. Timur lunges to help him but is instantly swatted away, and for an uncomfortable amount of time the two men say and do nothing. Shuhrat alternates between watching the pattern in the carpet swirl, to glaring back up at his comrade who is watching him with a great deal of patience - like he’s ready to wait all day for Shuhrat to admit he needs help and spill his guts to the man about what ails him. That won’t be happening, though, and Timur knows it all too well. 

“Look,” he starts, “I’m not gonna tell you what you already know…” He pulls a couple of waters from the fridge and sets one in front of the stubborn Uzbek as a friendly suggestion. “--but we all need a reminder every now and then. Ease up, понял?”

Shuhrat thinks on it all throughout breakfast - ways he can nurture his body rather than punish it. This isn’t the first time he’s exceeded past a certain threshold and it likely won’t be the last. It's a weakness; he’s being weak and the only thing to do is push past it. 

Subconsciously, he glowered in the direction of a particular German and, by extension, the ghost of another. He’s simultaneously appreciative and miffed that the seat across him remains vacant. 

Coffee was a poor choice in hindsight but after being combined with several light, buttery pastries his stomach was in much higher spirits. That’s where those spirits stopped, however. Not long after he’d finished his plate, Montagne notified him that he’s to meet with Six at his ‘earliest convenience’ - which must be French for  _ right fucking now _ . Fantastic.

Hungover and irrevocably pissed off, Shuhrat can only hope this reproval will go better than the last one or, at the very least, that Six won’t notice the state he’s in. Of course, he thought to change into something more professional but a change of clothes isn’t enough to protect him from what is sure to come. Six’s vexed yet strict mien as she flickered to life over the video feed was a testament to that. 

“Fuze. Thank you for joining me.” She voiced routinely. Shuhrat always found her formalities to be unnecessary if not a little pandering, but nodded anyway. “I presume you know why I wanted to speak with you privately.”

“The warehouse, ma’am?” The title he tacked on at the end, knowing the kind of mood she’s quick to slide into if he doesn’t display some level of respect. “--and events leading up to the… incident.” Such a vague recounting makes it sound like some kind of a grand-scale tragedy but he’s not sure what else to call it. ‘A stroke of misfortune’ just feels insulting. 

“In a sense,” she glances elsewhere, “Tell me, what did you see?” The question hangs in the air, lingering in the space right above his head. Wait. What did he  _ see _ ? 

“Ma’am?” He can’t help but be a little perplexed, he was sure going in that this would be a good old fashioned slap on the wrist but he’s slowly starting to realise that this isn’t about him. 

“You found something under that warehouse. What was it?” She had her no-nonsense face on, looking at him with such intensity he could feel her surrounding him, closing in. It was a bit of a struggle for Shuhrat to think past all the chaos, even in his memories it’s still so loud.

“Mmh…” It’s an embarrassment how hard it was to see through this mental fog and his struggle must’ve been obvious given the impatient sigh Six sent his way, “It seemed pretty standard: there was a boiler room with makeshift surveillance, screens displaying camera feed - that’s how I knew--” he stopped there, gauging her reaction. She only seemed to grow more restless, like he wasn’t giving her what she wanted. 

“Anything else?” 

He racked his brain for any items that stood out, “I remember seeing cell phones, packed into crates, among other things--” he went on, giving her all the gritty details of a rather mundane environment but his words trailed off once he noticed she wasn’t listening. The look on her face sent a shiver down his spine. It wasn’t the look itself that scared him but that Six was the one making it, and so openly at that, as she stared just beyond the camera where someone else might be. “What is it?” 

The question seemed to halt whatever thought process she was on and reeled her back in, “Does anybody else know?” she asked. 

“What?” He couldn’t help that one, it slipped out but there was a bubbling in his chest and it was getting hotter the longer she kept him in the dark. When she didn’t answer he pressed further, “If there’s something me or my team should know about--” 

“You’re out of line.” She shut him up quick, mindful that his chattiness is tightly related to his temper. “Answer the question.” Fierce eyes bore into him and he returned it two-fold. There’s no easy way out of this one; Maxim was there too, briefly, but there’s no knowing what he saw off-screen. He could feel the strain behind his eyes tighten, his head was in a vice with no way out.

“Nobody else knows.” 

  
  


By the time he left the conference room, the gym was buzzing. He was greeted by some and offered sympathetic looks from others who all assumed he’d received a routine tongue-lashing. He was given strict orders to keep quiet about the matter, and to visit with Montagne for disciplinary exercises. When he asked about Elias’ status, Six, with an air of surprise, stated that no new information had been released. Figures. Like a tower of books stacked too high, his problems piled up one after the other. Only a matter of time until--

“Shuhrat!” He turned the corner and just barely slammed into Marius, who shouted in surprise. He looked just short of horrified but didn’t make any move to pass by. He’s probably just startled but the possible implication of him waiting for something, like an apology or explanation, pissed Shuhrat off. He shoved past him, which he’d surely regret later, and headed for his room. 

Papers and folders littered the otherwise empty space, the majority sitting atop his wardrobe while others decorated the floor. He doesn’t recall Marius treating his files with anything less than extreme care. It’s likely he did it himself. Cleaning up the mess felt like a walk of shame, not much else to it. After slipping all the files back into his bottom drawer, he sat on the edge of his bed and did… a whole lot of nothing. He thought about Six and the mission; this job is built around inconsistencies. If there was no doubt, there’d be no need for people like him. He’s trained to uncover the truth but what if his employers are the ones hiding it? Subconsciously, he clawed at his knees, wearing down the fabric there.

His personal problems seemed so small in comparison to the larger picture - and they were. Nothing but trivial impediments. He knew that and yet… He groaned so heavily it hurt his throat, rubbing the space between his nose and forehead. Just don’t think about it. Don’t give it that power and it’ll cease to exist. 

  
  


During lunch Shuhrat only stopped by the mess hall to grab a lettuce wrap on his way to test out the Augmented Reality range. After the first night he was itching to test out something so advanced; there were simulations back at the Motor Rifle Brigade but that paled in comparison to such new, innovative technology. In a way, it was love at first sight.

Through the Arena doors, it was quiet. This whole room muffled sound, the walls had to be made from some kind of noise-cancelling material. He stretched out his hand and dragged it across the wall as he walked. It didn’t feel like anything special but with closer inspection he could make out tiny indents, or shallow holes.

“Hey, Shuhrat,” a deep, French-laden voice called to him. God damn it, what now? He turned to his right and found Montagne lumbering over to him. It looked like he was setting up for today’s training session. That and maybe fiddling with the camera system again. Perhaps it’s time to admit the thing’s busted. 

“How was the meeting?” If Shuhrat could answer honestly about one thing, it was this.

“Dogshit.” He went on his way again, hoping his bluntness would deter the other man.

“Hold it. I have orders in regards to your training.” 

“Then tell me about it in training.” He kept walking, AR range just a little bit further. Montagne didn’t go after him, it was more of a warning than a direct order, and that was all the permission Shuhrat needed to ignore it. Until training. 

He cast a glance behind him only after he reached his destination. Montagne was already back to work on his hopeless endeavor to revive the fallen surveillance setup. Shuhrat could help him, if there are enough parts to work with but… He’ll leave it be for now. The AR range looked like a regular run-of-the-mill indoor shooting range, aside from the fact that everything is built around a point in the center. It’s like a square and the shooter stands in the middle, which Shuhrat does once he’s equipped with a gun and a pair of glasses. 

He inspects his firearm first, making sure it’s not live and if he’ll need to reload somehow. It’s a standard assault rifle but no magazine - actually, no cartridge at all, and after pulling the trigger his suspicions were confirmed. It’s fake. That came as no surprise but it’s heavy enough to feel real, it had him guessing. The glasses he wore reminded him of clunky sunglasses he might’ve thought were cool as a kid. They weren’t cool now, even as they powered on and a dim blue screen overlaid his vision. He waited for the simulation to start.

Minutes pass and nothing happens. He takes off the glasses and studies them with a deep set scowl on his face. 

“Oh. Were you expecting that to work?” Montagne hollars from across the room, chuckling to himself. He knew and let Shuhrat go anyway… His guilt from earlier was dwindling by the second. Those cameras can stay broken for all he cares.

“Seriously??” The Uzbeck shouts. Not as a question but as a statement. 

“Seriously,” Montagne responds, sounding all too pleased about it. Shuhrat tosses the equipment aside on his way out of the range. What a waste of time. 

As fate would have it, Shuhrat spent the next hour aiding Montagne in his plight. Turns out there were plenty of spare parts in the vicinity but it would take time to implement. He’s not too unhappy about that, this is the kind of creative release he’s been seeking. 

The two of them don’t say much, luckily for him the Frenchman has an awkward streak and a natural sternness. They worked well together like this. It was only a matter of time before that peace was disturbed, voices filling the otherwise quiet space. 

Instructions started at the chime of Montagne’s watch and he gave them the rundown. “Today, it’s life or death,” he spoke with an air of drama, “The only objective is to survive.” Shuhrat found the commander’s tone amusing, the man never seemed like the type to humor theatrics. Or maybe that’s just how serious he took it. “Now, due to recent events…” he paused, “This is a test in  _ communication _ and  _ trust _ . I’ve assigned everyone a partner.” Heads turned to look at each other, curiously surveying what possible matches were made. Shuhrat instinctively locked eyes with Timur, there weren’t many people he was comfortable working with, especially alone.

“You and your partner are to work  _ together _ ; if one of you dies, you both lose.” Montagne continued, pacing in front of the crowd. Shuhrat started to feel hot for some reason, like there wasn’t enough air. “I’m going to list off each team. Once you have a partner, gear up and meet me back here for further instruction.” Guess these were the ‘specifications’ he’d tried to warn him about.

Montagne began reciting names, pausing in between each like he was deeply considering every one. Shuhrat watched those around him shuffle and regroup in accordance to who they were assigned until there was only one person standing alone, staring back at him anxiously.

“... Shuhrat and Marius.” 

You’ve got to be fucking kidding.

“What a day…” he muttered to himself on the way back to his room with Marius in tow. Most everyone came to the arena prepared but he didn’t have such generous forethought. It feels a little redundant to train in full gear since they’re all experienced enough; it would be just as effective and an all-around more tolerable experience in his sweats. 

Footfalls follow him quietly. It was an unusual phenomenon for Marius ‘Jager’ Streicher to have nothing to talk about so it’s abundantly clear, even to Shuhrat, that he’s simply afraid to. There’s a palpable tension surrounding them and it’s increasingly frustrating because Shuhrat created it himself, and he won’t be fixing it. Maxim, who was just in front of him, turned around briefly to flash him a thumbs-up and a smug grin before disappearing through the door at the end of the hall.

Once alone in his room, Shuhrat changed as quickly as possible and tucked his helmet under his elbow. He cursed his luck a thousand times as he and Marius locked eyes in the hallway and reluctantly walked back together. Marius had called out to him at some point along the way, a cautious half-whisper, but Shuhrat chose to ignore it. Along with the sharp pang of remorse that followed. 

In the arena for the second time today, Montagne paced back and forth, like a war vet being tormented by his fallen brothers. His instructions were hollow and while Shuhrat was listening, for the most part, he couldn’t turn off the voice in his head. These groups seemed oddball at best; Timur with Bandit didn’t seem like a match made in heaven. Twitch and Maxim, Thermite and Aleksander, Pulse and IQ - that one seemed particularly dangerous. Then him and Marius, like some fucked up joke just to piss him off.

There was no rhyme or reason to his behavior, he didn’t understand it himself. He doesn’t dislike the guy, far from it, but he was becoming too much… Somehow. His presence alone revives memories that are supposed to stay dead. 

Just then the man in question turned to him and asked, “Are you ready for this?” Side-eyeing him quizzically, gauging a response by watching Shuhrat’s mouth very closely. He became feverish suddenly, likely from his residual hangover, and nodded with minimal effort. 

It all started after a one-minute countdown. All the teams had to be out of view of each other and everyone was armed with one pistol, each having only one ‘bullet’. Two bullets per team meant they’d have to further communicate a plan and have disciplined execution. Marius led them into one of the upper rooms and suggested camping out while the other teams picked each other off. It’s not a bad plan and he sure as hell didn’t have anything better in mind. Not having a full cartridge really limited their options. 

Time ran out and the two of them began their wait. It’s quiet for a long while, everyone displaying caution with the raised stakes. If he listens hard enough, he can hear whispering through thin walls and floorboards. It’s not a very sturdy building but then again, it’s not built to last. 

“Shuhrat,” Marius murmured, trying to get his attention. Shuhrat looked at him and he continued, “Is… something wrong?” 

This again. Shuhrat heaved a sigh, turning back to face the doorway. This German can’t stop trying to worm his way into other people’s lives, can he? They haven’t had a chance to talk since the night before but is now really the time? 

“Why don’t you just  _ talk _ to me??” He spoke louder this time and with more force. Shuhrat has to grind his teeth to avoid going off. There are so many things he wants to say to that and none of them are nice. Now really isn’t the time.

“You-” Marius jumped at the sound of someone screaming, ‘Over here!’ and it set off a cacophony of different voices and shuffling down the hall. Shuhrat’s hands are sweating under his gloves and he tightens his grip on the gun, this session has become a test in patience. Marius stands up from behind him, he’s clearly not done.

“You have to communicate with me, isn't that--  _ this _ whole thing is pointless if you don’t  _ try _ !” He’s no longer holding back his voice and after turning around, Shuhrat can see his hands waving around in frustration. Even with his helmet on, Marius looks absolutely flustered. This is only marginally about the game. He knows that. 

“You’re going to give away our position,” Shuhrat stands levelled with the German, bulking himself up to stare down at him, regardless that they’re the same height. It was a warning. One that Marius wasn’t going to heed apparently. He inhaled sharply and lifted a finger, only to throw it back down. He must’ve reconsidered.

Just then something barrelled into Shuhrat’s left shoulder. The Uzbek swiveled around frantically and found Bandit, surprisingly soundless, lowering his pistol. Timur was standing next to him, brows knit together with concern. Shuhrat pawed at his shoulder, pulling back his hand to find it covered in white powder. 

“Behind you,” Marius announced impassively. He let Bandit shoot him. Fire burned in Shuhrat’s veins, he could punch him. Instead, the Uzbek wrenched off his helmet and threw it on the ground, pieces flew across the floor and Shuhrat would’ve been disturbed if he wasn’t so heated. He stomped out of the room, leaving the other two who could only watch as Marius chased after him. 

The German caught up with him on the stairs, “Shuhrat, I’m sorry-” 

He didn’t stop, this is  _ exactly _ what he didn’t want.  _ Just stop _ . Down the stairs they passed by another group who stepped to the side for them once they noticed Shuhrat’s ‘wound’.

The man tailing him didn’t take the hint, trying to catch up, his breath hitched while he spoke, “I-- I don’t know why I-” Shuhrat cut him off by grabbing his vest and pulling him into one of the side rooms for privacy. He slammed the German’s back against a wall, pinning him in place with superior strength. 

“What is wrong with you?” he leaned in close enough for his breath to fog Marius’ visor. Like the courteous man he is, Shuhrat waited for an answer but it was a waste. He slammed the German's helmet against the wall with his other hand. 

“What do you want from me?” he growled, pushing hard against him, “Everyone has a motive, what’s yours?” He spoke low into where Marius’ ear would be. There was so much unbridled rage trapped in his body, his hands. Nothing would satisfy him more than the release of such overwhelming energy. It wasn’t majorly directed at Marius either but for some reason, he wanted to  _ hurt _ him. That wouldn’t slide by too well with Rainbow and, given his track record, he can’t afford to do something so blissfully stupid. 

The longer he held him here the more he felt right about it. The German didn’t try to fight back, he kept still like one would when encountering a bear. It seemed fitting for the esteemed aircraft mechanic to resign himself to being beaten because he didn’t want to hurt his teammate. It left Shuhrat feeling drunk off how much power was being handed to him. He had to mentally shake himself out of it and remind himself of the circumstances. This will stand as a warning.

“Я сломаю тебя,” he whispered coldly, giving one last shove before releasing the other man, who slumped against the wall, dazed. 

“Now leave me the fuck alone.” With that said, Shuhrat promptly left the room and the ‘house’ all-together. Montagne met him with a disappointed look but everything else seemed so far away for now. 

The rest of the evening played out routinely, it zipped by for Shuhrat whose mind was thoroughly occupied. Marius avoided him, or so he assumed, since he didn’t see him during dinner or afterwards. 

Once his head hit his pillow, he couldn’t sleep. It was different than the past couple nights, he was alert. Something akin to anticipation enveloped him wholly and he browsed his phone for hours, occasionally coming back to his doubts, the mission, and how Marius smelled like chocolate.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra long chapter to reward your patience! 
> 
> Please, PLEASE consider the warnings in the tags before reading.

His sudden abandonment didn’t register at first, back sliding down the wall until he was seated, hunched over in a broken room without escort. Marius slowly returned to himself, more bewildered than anything. He was taken aback, Shuhrat had barely touched him but Marius froze up - a response that seems to be becoming a pattern for him. This is his own fault anyway. Outside he could hear voices; they pulled him to his feet and through the doorway, leaving these sad and splintered walls behind him. 

Harsh white light assaults his eyes the second he’s through the ‘house’ doors. It’s easy to forget how dark it gets in some of those rooms, the whole interior scantily lit with a flaxen yellow, like another world entirely. If only that were the case, he would go right back in. As he approaches the others, he sees Timur who gives him a pointed look; a silent come-hither stare amid contrastingly boisterous conversation. Marius, with half a mind, wanders over to the sniper while removing his helmet. 

Timur leans toward him before speaking in a hushed tone, “Don’t take it personally.” Marius avoids making eye contact, ashamed of himself. It felt pretty personal but Timur supposedly knows Shuhrat best.

The Russian laughs lightheartedly, “Most of the time he can be quite pleasant.” Marius holds his tongue. He wants to ask about Shuhrat’s violent outburst but realises that Timur wouldn’t know of that. It might be best to keep it to himself.

Timur’s smile fades after noticing the other’s pained expression. “He isn’t himself right now… You may not see it but Elias has affected all of us, Shuhrat especially.” 

There’s a part of him that remains bitter about the Uzbek’s outward calmness but it could be due to his own desire to achieve such stoicism. He thanks Timur, though he’s not sure why, and weaves through the crowd, keeping his head down. No one bothers to stop him and he’s fairly certain it’s due to their own social awareness. Thank Christ for that. 

  
  


By the time he’s shut himself in his room, his knees can hardly support him and he has to catch himself on the dresser. It seems adrenaline is finally kicking in, at least physically. This is humiliating. It wasn’t a life or death scenario and he wasn’t frightened, so what gives? He flumps down on worn linen sheets, not bothering to remove anything other than his shoes, and stares at the ceiling. 

He recalls Shuhrat’s chilling voice, like that of a predator. He’d never heard him sound like that before, but that’s not saying much given that he can count how many times they’ve talked on two hands. In the moment his senses were dulled but now, after it’s caught up with him, his body is reacting so strongly. He’s there, shoved up against a wall with nowhere to go and his heart is threatening to burst through his chest. How pathetic. Maybe he should let Shuhrat beat the crap out of him; if he gets it out of his system maybe there’s a chance they could smooth this over.

“It’s like the more I try, the more I make a fool of myself…” Marius groans, rubbing his face compulsively. His gloves chafe his skin and he sits up to slip them off, along with the rest of his gear. Lying back down brings a new sense of exhaustion but his eyes refuse to close.

After what felt like hours of pitiful self loathing, there came a knock at his door. Jumping up in equal parts surprise and anxiousness, Marius teeters on his heels unsure of whether or not to answer. Dozens of scenarios flit through his mind, one after the other. What if it’s…?

“Open up, will ya? I can hear your moping from down the hall.” 

It’s not. Marius physically sags, relieved to hear Dominic’s overfamiliar tone, but at the same time he feels a little… disappointed. He opens the door to find his fellow GSG9 agent braced against the archway, leering down at him from a rather suggestive position. 

“I’m here to swallow your soul,” the man hisses and Marius slams the door in his face. He won’t be having any of that right now; he does leave the door unlocked, against his better judgment, as an invitation if Dominic opts for more serious conversation. 

The second his ass reunites with his bed the door does, in fact, reopen and Dominic waltzes in like he owns the place. He might as well, the former double agent has never been one to respect his colleague’s privacy, but Marius allows it so who’s really to blame? 

“Oh,  _ come on _ . ‘Evil Dead’?” Dom gripes, plopping down next to him, making the metal bed frame creak. Marius stubbornly holds his chin in his hands, not in the mood. 

“Nothing, huh?” He goes quiet straight away, looking very focused, as he calculates a new approach. A sulking engineer glances over at him in wait.

“So,” Dominic resolutely slaps his hands on his own thighs, “What’s eatin’ you?” 

“What do you mean?” Marius settles for tactful ignorance.

“I mean, you’re not out there,” he points his thumb behind him, “being the cook’s favorite little face-stuffer; so I figured…”

“That I’m ‘moping’?” Marius deadpans. 

Dominic throws an off-hand gesture at him, “You got it.”

Marius rolls his eyes, and it takes a conscious effort not to cross his arms like some stricken teenager. “Well, for once, you’re wrong; I’m fine. Just a little sick to my stomach.”

Dominic leans back and gives him a skeptical once-over, “You  _ do _ know that you’re the worst liar I’ve ever met, don’t you? And I’ve met a lot of people.” That last part felt unnecessary. It could be a bluff but Marius won’t be caught slipping, as stares the other man down with faux confidence. 

Soon enough, Dominic raises his hands in surrender, “Alright, you win. If you don’t want to tell me, you’re only breaking my heart. No big deal.”

“What heart?” Marius chaffs but it comes off very derisive and he bites his tongue.

Dominic stands up and begins meandering toward the exit. “You wound me, you know that? You really do.  _ This _ is what I get for coming to check on you?” 

Their banter is always meant to be a joke but guilt creeps up on him anyway. Dom has always had his back, even after Elias’ discharge. The two of them are closer than Marius would even know; there’s no doubt it hit Dominic hard, and Marius has been nothing but a pain in the ass… 

“Hey,” Dom cuts in, waiting until his gaze is met to continue, “Stop.” 

He lingers a little longer, allowing it to sink in before reaching for the doorknob. “At least come out and eat.”

“I said I’m not hungry.”

“Actually, you said you felt sick. I’m just going to bring you something.”

“Dom, no--”

“Dinner in bed, coming right up!” With that he shuts the door behind him. 

Marius  _ did _ end up having dinner in bed. Dominic brought him a tomato and pepper dish that Emmanuella called “Piperade”. It felt more like a side-dish rather than a main course; on its own it was very unbalanced, and all the acidity ended up giving him heartburn. Maybe this was his punishment for being a “bitch” as Dom had expressed when he delivered the food. 

He deserves worse.

  
  


Marius awoke earlier than usual the next morning, but instead of going back to sleep he embraced it. Ironically, bathing has begun to make him feel dirty. He’s certain that he showers more than anybody else at this point, so he tries not to linger. 

The sunrise greets him on his way out; a flash of gold kissing his vision and leaving him blinking away stars. This could be one of the few chances he’ll have to enjoy the scenery here, so he decides to stick around, resting atop one of the gym benches. It  _ is _ an enchanting sight; the sun cresting atop rolling hills as gleaming light illuminates everything it touches. It engulfs the room, casting a dream-like scene, comparable to that of a fond memory. It warms his damp skin, and for a brief but beautiful moment, it feels like everything is going to be okay. 

It was then that he noticed Monika, sitting quietly on the other side of the room. His observation skills have been seriously lacking lately; this is like, the third time. Marius waves at her, but she’s so hyper-fixated on what’s beyond the window that she doesn’t see it. She’d look sad if her expression weren’t so intense. Might be best to leave her alone right now. 

Marius sneaks out and gets himself set up in the cafeteria instead. He made a pit stop on the way to grab his laptop, and vows a promise to himself that, this time, he’ll surely make some progress. 

  
  


An hour gone, and he’s no further along with BPOL’s designs. Breakfast is being served, voices and bodies begin to move around him intrusively, and Marius wants to slam his face into the keyboard. Emmanuella sits across from him and pushes his monitor down to a half-close so she can see him. 

“You look about ready to pop,” she hums a little laugh. Marius smiles weakly, and shuts the laptop the rest of the way. 

“Guess there’s no helping it,” he pushes the computer to the side to hopefully forget about it. “I can’t seem to focus lately…” he explains absently, watching her cut a biscuit that’s smothered in gravy. She laughs, louder this time, when his stomach growls.

“You can feed your mind by first feeding your stomach,” Emma points her knife to the food bar and Marius doesn’t put up a fight this time. It does smell awfully inviting. 

He returns to a full table, his plate almost spilling over with how much he piled on. Perez seemed happy to see him, and his appetite. Marius makes a mental note to check in with the Barcelonian more often, it's the least he could do. 

Gilles greets him in that generally stiff tone of his; it's his soft off-duty voice. Meanwhile next to him, Dominic slaps him across the back in tandem with his first bite.

"Found a cure for your illness, kumpel?" Dom smirks at the engineer next to him who is trying desperately not to choke. Marius responds appropriately by backhanding Dom in the sternum. He then downs half of his cup of orange juice and he's good to go. 

"Oh, Marius, are you sick?" Emma inquires. Gilles next to her looks just as concerned.

"Uh-- no, I'm not sick," he clears his throat, not making a good case for himself. 

He's suddenly struck by Monika's absence and surveys the room, but she's nowhere to be found. Could she still be in the gym? Just then, he spots Shuhrat, hunched over a table with Maxim and Timur in tow. His chest tightens at the sight of him, and he has to tear his eyes away to keep from staring, but it's like a magnetic pull - he can't fight it. Knowing that he shouldn't as much as  _ look _ at the guy makes it an irresistible endeavor. The Uzbek's lips are moving so he's obviously talking, and Marius subconsciously tries to make out the words.

"Marius!" 

The engineer starts so hard his knees smack against the table with a  _ thwack _ , surprising even himself. He turns back to his current company who are all watching him warily. 

"See what I mean? He doesn't even laugh at my film references anymore." Dom shakes his head, trying to make light of the subject, and places a hand on Marius' shoulder with surprising tenderness. It takes all his concentration to keep from shoving Dom away; his nerves are on fire, but he'd rather tough it out then do something he'd regret. 

"Sorry, I've got a lot on my mind right now." Marius blows out a breath of air awkwardly, looking between the other three. He then proceeds to shove forkfuls of breakfast down his gullet. Can't be expected to talk if he just keeps eating; it'll also give him something to concentrate on. 

Eventually, conversation picks back up and Marius is happy with being a simple spectator. Eating is actually doing a great job of soothing his nerves, along with the friendly banter between Dom and Emma. It creates a pleasant, but fleeting, sense of normalcy. It was a matter of time until his mind wandered off, eyes revisiting the same spot occasionally. He's filled with so much doubt and desperation, this has to be the most emotion-fueled deployment he's experienced - it's not even been a full week. What was their mission again? Protect, serve… investigate. He wonders if the other factions are making any progress. Six has been quiet, and now they're at a standstill. 

His focus sets on the Uzbek again, and Marius is speaking before he realizes it, "How did you decide on partners?" 

"Come again?" Gilles responds, being the only one to recognize the context of the question. Marius turns to him, a bit in awe with his own directness.

"The training partners - what was your process for pairing us up?" It may not be his place to ask, but he needs to know. "I mean, they all seem so oddball - no offense, but  _ Jack  _ and  _ Monika _ ? Emma and Maxim, Dom and Timur,  _ me _ and…" 

"Are you unhappy with my decision?" Gilles asks, more out of curiosity than consideration. 

"They just seem so… conflicting," his composure was slipping, it's a little frustrating having to explain it. 

"I have to agree, my and Maxim's skills and tact are totally different," Emma shares her input, coming to Marius' aid. Dom listens silently, a small grin creeping up his cheeks.

Gilles takes a sip of water before answering, "That's exactly the point." He gestures with an open hand and a shrug, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "It's supposed to be a challenge. I teamed you up based on your weaknesses, not your strengths."

"Wait a minute," Dominic cuts in, "You're saying that sniper has something I don't?" It was meant as a joke but Gilles answers it seriously.

"Patience, for one thing."

Marius snorts as Dom glares the Frenchman down, not expecting to be roasted so early in the morning. Emma has fallen quiet, deep in thought. Marius follows her example, mulling over this new information. Shuhrat and him are definitely different, he barely understands the man. If they're to work together again tonight… a shudder passes through him as he recalls the Uzbek's warning - it's not possible.

Marius interrupts whatever Dom was griping about, "Would it be possible to change partners?" It slipped out, but it  _ is _ the best option for them. He can't promise to be level-headed with Shuhrat around. 

"Is he giving you trouble?" Dom asks immediately, like he was waiting for it to come up. Marius makes himself dizzy trying to think of a good answer.

"I wasn't expecting you to give up so easily," Gilles interjects. It's a clear challenge and Marius feels like a door just closed for him. "I chose these teams for a reason." 

His world is spinning. Emma's delicate hand finds his own, pressing down on it reassuringly, "Is everything okay?" 

"Yeah, everything's fine. Just curious." Honestly he could throw up. Gingerly, he pulls his hand away from her touch.

"What a crock of shit," Dom spits, "The bastard blew up yesterday during training." 

Gilles sighs like a disappointed father being let down for the tenth time, and Emma nods, affirming her own suspicions. 

"Did he do something after you ran off?" Dom raises his voice, "Did he hurt you?" Marius has never seen him act like this, like a big brother ready to fight his battles for him. It kind of pissed him off. 

"No, he didn't do anything,” that was a lie. “He's not like that!" Another lie.

"Why are you protecting him? You don't know  _ anything _ about him!" 

Marius wanted to shout and scream, but not even _he's_ sure why he's defending Shuhrat anymore. What he does know is that Dom has overstepped a line that didn't exist until now. 

He stands up abruptly and turns to leave. Timur's words from earlier echo in his ears; there's always more beneath the surface. 

The engineer gets a few steps in before spinning around, trotting back to the table with his eyes cast downward.

"I'm taking this," he states with a huff, and nabs his laptop and what remains of breakfast before leaving the mess hall entirely. 

  
  


Time keeps ticking no matter how hard you will it not to. Marius spent so long dreading that afternoon’s training that, when it came, it hit him like a freight train. Realization didn’t fully set in until he was geared up, standing stiff as a board next to Shuhrat - or rather, Fuze. 

“Alright. Same game, same rules!” Gilles announces to the group. He’s the only one not in gear, and Marius wonders when he’ll join them in training. That  _ would _ make for uneven teams, though. “Key word of the day:  _ cooperation _ . I’ll be observing you all closely--” No matter how hard he tried, Marius couldn’t focus on anything being said until it was time to start.

Upon entering the ‘house’, Shuhrat hasn’t said a word, and Marius can’t get control of his breath under his facemask. As the others branch off, Marius realizes they need some form of plan, and so he bites the bullet.

“Same plan?” 

Shuhrat’s helmet turns to him, leering at him vacantly. It makes the German’s chest tighten, seeing his own reflection in Fuze’s visor. 

“Uhh-- camping out for the first half?” Marius finishes. He receives a slow nod from his partner and relief washes over him in a cool wave. 

That concludes all conversation for the next ten minutes. Marius leads them into a room on the second floor, and they crouch behind a turned over couch in the back corner. He finds it intriguing that most of these rooms have old furniture strewn about, serving as improvised cover. Guess it wouldn’t be as fun if it was all just empty space. 

Minutes stretch on forever, and though nothing is being said, the tension surrounding them grows thicker and heavier with each passing second. Maybe it’s his imagination, but every time he shifts his position he sees that green helmet flick in his direction with unnerving urgency. It’s a blessing when commotion from the hall breaks that silence, though it’s short-lived, and Marius dares a peak from the side of the couch. Large boots stalk into the doorway, and he pulls his head back behind cover, readying his pistol. He directs a hard look at Shuhrat before bouncing up. 

The man on the other side, turns at the sight of him but he’s not fast enough. Marius unloads his pistol, fingers pulling the trigger several times even though there was only one round. White sprays across the man’s chest, dead in the center. 

Then comes a moment of clarity as Marius sighs, lowering his pistol. He recognizes the uniformed man to be Kapkan, and behind him Twitch pokes her head in. She quietly mumbles something to her partner about letting her go in first, but she’s quickly ignored.

“Is that any way to treat your wingman, _blondinka_?” Maxim spits, obviously irked, letting his hands fall at his sides. Behind him, Emmanuella’s eyebrows shoot up, her eyes darting between Marius and Shuhrat, who’s now at a full stand. 

Marius blurts out a quick, “Huh?” before the Russian tilts his head impishly, sending Marius into a cold sweat. 

“Don’t come to me for any more advice,” Maxim makes a half-assed shrug, like he’s making some kind of joke, but Marius must not be in on it. “Talk to him yourself.” With that, he swivels around and leaves the room, giving the Frenchwoman a passing pat on the shoulder. She lingers a moment, worry lines etched into her brow. Marius lifts a finger to say something to her but it gets caught in his throat, and he ends up gaping like a fish behind his mask. She leaves abruptly, probably thinking she was overstaying her welcome, given what context Maxim created. What context  _ was _ that exactly? 

“So  _ that’s  _ what it is?” Shuhrat sneers, mostly to himself. That visor, once again, boring into the German’s own.

“No! No, no, no-- that’s not what this is,” Marius defends, throwing up his hands, and waving them in tandem with the shaking of his head. “I seriously don’t know what he’s talking about. I mean, I think he said something to me that night I was drunk, but-- hey!” In the middle of his rambling, Shuhrat had started for the exit. Marius can’t let him leave, not with  _ that _ kind of misunderstanding, so he runs up to block the doorway. 

“Move.” Shuhrat commands, his fists disciplined at his sides. Marius scrambles for any reason that would keep the Uzbek from leaving.

“What about the game?” Marius scrunches his face in distaste - stupid. He watches the Uzbek lift his gun, then-- a sharp thud punches him in the abdomen. Marius looks down to find his side painted white. Shuhrat pushes the German aside and proceeds down the hallway.

“Guess we lost.”

Marius gapes as indignation heats to a boil beneath his skin. 

“What is your  _ problem _ ??” A voice in his head screams at him to walk away, to give it up, but Marius storms after his partner in complete disregard of that voice. It becomes eerily reminiscent of yesterday, chasing the Uzbek down the stairs, mouth going off without permission.

“You’re insufferable, I can’t believe I actually  _ defended _ you!” The man doesn’t stop, pushing past Jack and Monika, who ask a string of questions that die before they reach Marius’ ears. He stomps on by, not daring to make eye contact. He can feel himself shouting, but can no longer tell what he’s saying and that’s what frightens him. 

Once Shuhrat has halted, it takes Marius too long to realize they’re in another room, and the string of insults immediately dies in his throat. 

“Do you want to know what my problem is?” The Uzbek snarls, nabbing the shrinking German by the collar. “ _ You _ are my problem.” 

No. Not again. 

“Put me down…” Marius gasps. The fist around his collar only tightens in response. 

“You’ve been a thorn in my side since day one… You don’t stop.” 

Marius attempts to pry the Uzbek’s hands off him, and he’s rewarded with a swift punch to the stomach. He coughs as the air is knocked from his lungs; it’s the first time Shuhrat has actually  _ hit _ him. The hand on his collar rises to squeeze his neck. He could call for help… No, the very thought of it is too humiliating. 

“You have no idea how badly I could hurt you…” Shuhrat grips tighter and Marius is seeing stars, mindlessly his hands come up to burrow under the fingers around his throat. The Uzbek leans in, his helmet knocking against Marius’. “--And how bad I want to,” he growls. 

Out in the hall, Marius can hear voices; Shuhrat must’ve heard them too, since Marius feels himself being hoisted across the room and around a corner. His throat is released, sending him into a coughing fit. Warily, he looks to the doorway behind him, but it’s blocked by the corner wall. His shoulders are shoved back against it to keep him still, but the sudden pain from his injury has him writhing. 

“What is it you want from me…” That unfeeling visor falters for an almost indistinguishable moment, and Marius looks up at his captor, the force on his shoulders softening. 

“What I-- Wa-- Uh… Nothing. I don’t  _ want _ anything.” The German squirms, drawing a blank. 

Suddenly, Marius is pulled from the wall, and slammed back into it. Will Shuhrat keep him here until he hears what he wants to believe? Frantically, Marius brings his knee up and it strikes Shuhrat in the gut, but instead of getting him to let go, the Uzbek doubles his efforts. He shoves down on the German’s shoulders, pushing him onto his knees. 

“With Elias gone, you want someone to  _ baby _ you? Is that it??” 

It stings red hot, and ice cold, still fresh. Marius breaks free for long enough to connect a fist with Shuhrat’s helmet, deepening a crack from yesterday. The man releases a furious cry, rearing back for a punch, but stops himself. Instead, he uses that inertia to pin the engineer’s throat to the wall, using his other hand to bind one of his wrists.

“No… Based on what Maxim said, you’re wanting a different kind of comfort.” Shuhrat punctuates each word with contempt.

Marius would shake his head if it weren’t stuck in place, the lack of air making the corners of his vision darken. Just as he thinks he might pass out, the pressure is lifted, and his world spins.

“I’ll give you what you want, if it’ll get it out of your system.” Shuhrat waits for a response, but the engineer couldn’t comprehend the proposal to save his life. The Uzbek stands, unzipping his pants in a bold gesture, and this slaps Marius out of his stupor.

“Wait--” but his argument is interrupted by several long inches of raging dick, bobbing in front of his nose. 

Marius freezes, utterly dumbfounded. He glances up at the man above him, who’s looking just as stiff as the member he’s sporting. Hold on.

“What…?” Coherency is out the window, nothing makes sense anymore. Marius didn’t ask for this… Did he? 

“Get on with it.” The Uzbek presses his cock against Marius’ facemask, smearing something wet and hot that seeps into the fabric. When Shuhrat pulls back, he makes a point to give him some space; it almost feels like the Uzbek is offering an out, if Marius wanted to take it. Even so, he remains frozen in place, completely dazed.

The sight of soft flesh poking through such a rough, thoroughly clothed exterior does something to Marius’ stomach; that emotionless visor now giving him chills for various reasons. A gloved hand comes down to cup his chin, testing for any resistance. So much is running through the engineer’s head; he’s afraid to continue, yet a louder part of him is afraid to stop. That’s when that hand unclips his chin strap, moving the equipment away from the front of his face. Without knowing it, Marius had started panting when a thumb slipped underneath his visor. That thumb snags the top of his facemask, right above his cheek, and drags it down past his lips. 

Cool air laps at his skin, and he opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out. Shuhrat unceremoniously presents his manhood mere inches away from Marius’ face, while still holding the mask down; it would probably slip back up if he didn’t. Marius holds his breath, heart hammering in his chest. This isn’t what he asked for, but he tries to convince himself that maybe he secretly wanted it… Before he can second-guess himself, Marius takes his free hand and wraps his fingers around Shuhrat’s dick. That was what ultimately tipped the scales and cemented this transfer of power.

“I thought so.” Shuhrat derides, sounding a little relieved. Marius rips a deep sigh from his teammate upon shifting his grip experimentally. His hands are shaking, either out of fear or excitement or both. This isn’t something Marius is familiar with; he’s not terribly experienced in any kind of sexual art, never tried to be - but right now, everywhere that Shuhrat touched him burned hot with something he can’t quite describe.

The Uzbek adjusts his hand so the back of his fingers are keeping Marius’ mask open, while his thumb snakes between the German’s lips. 

“I’m only going to do this once, so enjoy it.” Shuhrat yanks Marius’ mouth open and slides his length all the way in with very little resistance. 

Any protests Marius had are immediately muffled, and he’s left whining around the Uzbek’s cock as it presses against the back of his throat. It makes him retch, and, frantically, the engineer pushes against Shuhrat’s hips. When they don’t budge, Marius tries to pull his head back, but it hits the wall, denying him an escape. His assailant leans in, settling deeper in the back of Marius’ throat, cutting off his airway and making his eyes sting with tears. Like a switch, Marius is sent into full blown panic, literally stuck between a cock and a hard place. He starts beating his fists against the other man, only to have them snatched up and bound above his head. Utterly helpless, Marius focuses on relaxing his gag reflex as his vision tunnels for a second time. The thought of dying crosses his oxygen-deprived mind, and he shudders violently at the absurdity of the idea. 

Just then, the clouds open up and, finally, Shuhrat pulls out, his dick leaving the engineer’s mouth with a wet sound. Marius gasps breathlessly, his lungs igniting in welcome of new air. He doesn’t notice the drool dripping from his open maw, but even if he had, he doesn’t have a mind to care. It’s like he’s been drugged, the edges of his perception are fuzzy and he could laugh if he wasn’t so short-winded - or so incredibly frustrated. With his arms held above him, all he can do is hang his head and catch his breath for as long as Shuhrat will allow it.

  
  


Not much time is given before the Uzbek is on him again, lifting his chin, and nudging Marius’ lips with his cockhead. Out of defiance, Marius keeps his mouth shut, not interested in a repeat encounter. Above him, the other man doesn’t seem annoyed but interested, like an avid researcher forming a hypothesis. His dick idly rubs against the German’s cheek for a moment before he shifts his footing. An electric current travels up Marius’ spine as pressure is placed on the tent in his jeans; the jagged sole of Shuhrat’s boot grinds down on Marius’ concealed boner, giving it some desperately needed attention. He hadn't even noticed it until now, is he seriously getting off to this? 

Marius’ mouth lolls open, panting louder with every twist of Shuhrat’s ankle. 

“Shuhrat… This isn’t--” 

The Uzbek then stomps harshly, forcing a strangled moan from his teammate, opening his mouth wider. The German winces as Shuhrat’s virility thrusts past his lips once again, and he strains against the hold on his wrists. When the tip reunites with the back of his throat, Marius pulls back, knocking his helmet against the wall with a  _ thunk _ . Unlike last time, Shuhrat pulls out straight away before thrusting right back in, beginning a rhythm. 

Every time Shuhrat sinks his cock to the hilt, the engineer’s head smacks the wall, creating a beat that the Uzbek is in full control of. Marius’ senses fill with the scent of him; an herby, resinous musk that wafts up with each thrust, making him lightheaded. 

“Look at you…” he trails off, grunting softly. “This really is what you wanted after all-- hah… filthy reprobate.” He moves Marius’ hands to the wall, leaning the German back so his head can actually rest against it, before face fucking him properly. Looking up, Marius’ heart skips a beat at the sight of  _ Fuze _ staring right at him. What sends him further is seeing himself reflected in that visor, lips stretched wide around his colleague’s erection. Shuhrat whispers something in Russian, and Marius shivers; he wants to touch himself - needs it. 

At that moment, he can hear someone calling his name. Shuhrat’s movements halt as he turns toward the exit, even though it should be out of view. The German’s blood runs cold upon hearing movement from the doorway.

“Marius!” a voice calls in the room, it sounds like Monika. He and Shuhrat share a mutual look; they should be okay as long as no one turns the corner, right? While Marius is focusing on remaining absolutely still, his teammate’s dick slips from his lips-- then back in. Shocked, Marius tries to rip his hands away from the Uzbek’s clutches, but stops once he catches himself making noise. Depositing both the German’s wrists in one hand, Shuhrat brings a pointed finger to his mask.  _ Be quiet _ . He then picks up where he left off, plunging in and out of Marius’ quivering mouth. 

Marius could bite him, he deserves as much, but that wouldn’t end well for him. It would take only a few steps from the door to find them, but Marius’ boner doesn’t go down, not even a little. Maybe he really  _ is _ depraved… Far off shouts resonate through the halls, and Monika’s voice follows,

“No, he might’ve run off--” her words grow more distant, marking her departure. The engineer instantly sags in relief, going lax in his partner’s hold, letting him fuck his throat raw. It’s not long until that cock is ramming into him, making him choke. He listens as the Uzbek’s breath grows more ragged, and when a moan escapes him, Marius can’t help but do the same. 

It comes as a surprise, hot sap flooding his mouth, he has to hold his breath so’s not to inhale it. He can feel Shuhrat’s cock throbbing as it slides out, and watches what’s left spurt across his own visor. He looks up at the other man, empty mask staring back. The Uzbek's shoulders rise and fall, and Marius wishes he could see what kind of expression he's wearing. 

Reluctantly, Marius holds all the cum in his mouth, not sure what to do with it. Seeing his plight, Shuhrat pulls the German’s facemask up over his nose. 

“Don’t spit it out,” he demands, placing a hand over the mask. It’s thick and tastes of salt and skin, he’s not very keen on swallowing it. Though, he’s not been given much of a choice. Shuhrat doesn’t stick around to make sure his order is carried out, zipping his pants back up and leaving Marius to clean himself up. “I hope you’re satisfied.”

Abandoned once again, Marius slumps further onto the floor. He’s left feeling rather  _ dissatisfied _ , actually… and dejected. None of it feels real, of all the possible outcomes, that was… He doesn’t know what that was, but he wants something - anything, to affirm that it  _ did  _ happen. Marius can finally feel himself through his jeans, so hard it hurts, and he mindlessly palms his clothed erection. His jaw aches and his lips feel numb and his tongue is starting to tingle from holding Shuhrat’s seed for so long. 

Tired of overthinking every little thing, he swallows. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive these sinning hands.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for your patience with me on updates and Thanks for reading!
> 
> For a visual of the base I made a map:  
> https://twitter.com/TiggityTwa/status/1244078079275700225?s=19


End file.
